by D. I. Telbat
The bridge was crowded with troops, some of them watching him through their own binoculars. It seemed the whole Mastover division of Lib-Org regulars expected to face off against what was left of the resistance. Obviously, the judge wasn't aware of the strife within River Camp that had convinced Eric that he needed to come alone to seek peace in the nearest town. But he wasn't about to indicate to the Lib-Org troops that he was indeed alone, either.
He walked back into the trees, donned his buckskin shirt, then tore off the bark of a fallen birch tree to cover and hide his rifle at the base of a tall pine. Going armed into the midst of two hundred soldiers would be foolish, especially since he wouldn't shoot to kill anyone.
Emerging from the trees again, he guessed that the lookouts at the bridge would report they'd seen at least two different people now, since Eric had shown himself wearing two different shirts. He was sure no one was expecting him to show up alone. If Judge Grayport suspected there were witnesses watching from the woods, Eric hoped he would be a little safer amongst the hostiles.
With his eyes on the first ranks of soldiers, Eric reached the highway, then approached them by walking down the middle of the road. Unfortunately, the judge wasn't among the first people. Instead, the troops, in their gray and black uniforms, stepped aside to allow him to walk up the bridge. Halfway across, Eric noticed two Humvees and a number of officers standing, waiting for him.
As he walked up the center, he glanced over the railing at the muddy water fifty feet below. It was no longer boiling with debris from spring runoff, but it was still flowing swiftly.
Ten paces from the officials, Eric stopped, his hands at his sides. Soldiers behind him closed ranks. There seemed no escape. He begged God to be his refuge and give him courage.
"You're Mad Man?" one of the officers asked. He was clothed in the finest uniform, though with no precise indication of rank, and he wore a sidearm. Though his eyes were dark under bushy eyebrows, Eric saw Joel's eyes in the man's face. This was Judge Zachary Grayport, the one many called the menace and traitor of Wyoming. "You're the one causing all this trouble?"
Eric steeled himself, hoping his face betrayed nothing. He wasn't shocked that the legend of his madness had been exaggerated, blamed, and at some point, used as an excuse for the resistance. After all, he'd spent considerable effort planting rumors six years earlier among travelers on the highway that there was a mad man in the mountains.
"If it were up to me," Eric said calmly, "we'd all be at peace, keeping our people safe, and preparing for the winter."
Looking at their faces, Eric wondered if he wasn't speaking directly to their hearts, since they were gaunt in their loose-fitting uniforms. The army at Mastover apparently wasn't eating too well, and it would only get worse with winter coming.
"We're way past peace and safety." The judge gestured to one of his men. A soldier opened a back door of a Humvee and drew out a hooded figure from the vehicle. "You've cost me enough headaches. The resistance ends today."
The hooded man was shoved forward. His hands were bound behind his back. He complied with a grunt as he was forced to his knees in front of Eric. The hood was yanked off, and Major Milton Pickford blinked at the late afternoon sunshine. His face was swollen and bruised from beatings, and he wore a blood-stained shirt. Instead of meeting Eric's eyes, Milton's gaze was downcast, and Eric understood the look of shame when he saw it. Milt was the one who'd talked; he was responsible for blaming the Wyoming Mad Man for the resistance. For his own welfare, Milt had endangered everyone at River Camp!
Eric felt pity rather than much anger over Milt's situation. Over a year earlier, Milt had fled to him for help, his leg wounded by the Lib-Org's first incursion. Then, Milt had asked for his assistance in helping the families of the resistance fighters. Again, Eric had given up his life at the cabin to insure the safety of the women and children. Next had come the rescue of Milt from the jail. God continued to place their lives at intersecting points, and Eric couldn't help but extend his aid to the failed resistance fighter. But what now?
"This man only wants to secure a safe and free life for his people," Eric said. "From what your messengers said, he's not the true face of your enemy. The Lib-Org has started burning even your own people now."
"Anyone, yourself included, is my enemy if you make Commander Morris come and execute Mastover people."
"I'm not your enemy, Judge." Eric browsed the hard faces of the surrounding soldiers. He might never get another moment to speak to such cold hearts. "We're all seeking a common, responsible liberty. But there is no liberty until we begin to stand against evil. We've all made choices since Pan-Day that have hurt others. Before the resistance and before the Lib-Org rolled through our towns, our hearts were already selfish and proud. But that doesn't mean we can't turn around and draw our communities together again. When the resistance kills one of your men, Judge, they kill an American civilian. And when you kill a resistance fighter, you're just killing a Mastover citizen. We're fighting ourselves to the death, when we should be fighting together a more sinister enemy that has sway over our souls!"
"No one can fight the Lib-Org and survive." The judge's face showed no emotion. "We joined the Lib-Org to stay alive. There's no other way, even if we don't like it."
"I've been through your town and seen what you call existence." Eric shook his head. "Commander Morris brought Mastover to its knees, and now garbage and sickness rule your streets. Maybe even the virus! That's your existence. He never rescued you. He crippled you so badly that you don't even know who you are anymore. You're Americans! Quit killing each other!"
"I'll accept your terms for peace, since Commander Morris will return next week. He has demanded an execution—five of my own soldiers, or the execution of the resistance leader in Wyoming. An example needs to be made. You want peace? This is your opportunity."
Milt raised his face to Eric. There were tears on Milt's face.
"How can the resistance rest if you continue to regulate Lib-Org policy in Mastover?" Eric shifted his feet, trying to avoid thoughts of execution for the moment. "You ruled as a tyrant, Judge Grayport, even before the Lib-Org came to town, but they gave you a license to treat your people even worse now. There'll be a resistance until change is implemented. You have the ability to unite a people who will stand behind you—as soon as you stand behind them. Don't you understand? You need to stand with them!"
"I—" The judge's uncertainty finally showed on his face. There was a hint of weakness and doubt. He hardly seemed like the villain Eric had imagined. Instead, the judge was just a flawed man whose leadership had been trampled by stronger men. "I represent the Lib-Org now. A traitor needs to be presented to Commander Morris. Only then will I entertain considerations for further peace with the people of the resistance."
Eric sighed. The judge's heart was so hardened against alternatives, so contrary to God's moral urgings.
"It seems you have your resistance fighter," Eric said, "but you're looking for me. Is that what I'm to understand?"
"Everyone knows you've been operating for years in those mountains. You're Mad Man from south of Mastover."
"Mad Man from south of Mastover? Okay. I see."
His heart raced, and Eric realized there wasn't even an argument he could provide to defend himself. Too many travelers had moved up the highway in the beginning years, sowing seeds of concern about the rumored crazed man in the woods. With the rumors and subsequent forced confessions from the lips of tortured resistance fighters, no one but Mad Man would appease the demand for blood. The judge didn't even want Major Milton!
"The commander already has a file on you from us." The judge smirked. "With you gone, the resistance ends. Afterward, we can concentrate on cleaning up Mastover. If you care about the people, you'll come as peacefully as you talk."
"If you care about the people, you'd leave the Lib-Org."
"That's never going to happen."
Eric rested his hands on his hips. The bridge railing
was two bounds and a leap away. In seconds, he could be in the water, flowing briskly away from the threat of execution. By dawn, he could be with Andy. They could leave River Camp with Joel and return to the cabin. Life could be calm again.
But his own safety would be costly. Milt would be executed instead. The resistance would continue regardless, Eric guessed, until the Lib-Org backed off. But the Lib-Org wouldn't let Mastover rest until Mad Man was caught and killed. And Commander Morris would pour his wrath upon the residents of Mastover. Unless Eric bought at least a temporary peace for the judge, more people would die.
"This man is to be set free," Eric said, indicating Milt. He hoped to leave at least one witness of what was happening.
Milt's mouth gaped in shock.
"That's understood." The judge pointed at Milt's hands. The nearby soldier stepped forward and cut Milt's binds. "Your mountain fighters need to lay down their arms and return to Mastover. If they don't comply, I'll be forced to hunt them out of the woods once and for all—or we'll face more executions from Commander Morris. I have no choice."
"I understand." Eric pulled the battered frame of Milt to his feet, embraced him, and whispered in his ear. "It's time for peace, Milt. Too many are dying. Bring the men in to talk."
"There's no one left out there," Milt said, holding Eric tightly. "All the women you've been watching for us—their men are dead. The only bargaining chip I had was to say we had a whole army still out there."
Eric held him at arm's length, trying to blink away his surprise.
"That . . . complicates things." Eric winced. "Can you swim?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because, if you're the last resistance fighter, I think swimming is the only way you're getting out of here alive."
"What?" Milt's eyes widened.
Eric wasn't as tall as Milt, but he was stronger. Gripping Milt by the shoulders, he pulled him suddenly to the right.
"Jump!" Eric yelled, then lifted Milt slightly to send the resistance fighter over the rail.
An instant later, Milt was gone. Eric turned slowly, his hands raised, as one hundred muzzles aimed at his head.
Judge Grayport had his resistance fighter.
*~*
Chapter 3
The basement level of the Mastover courthouse was deplorable. The cement cell walls were rotting with mold, and wherever metal once gleamed, it was now rusted. The building had certainly flooded in months and years past, and the damaged corner cell where Eric had instigated a prison break showed the neglect of the entire structure. Fortunately, the plumbing in Eric's small neighboring cell had been repaired enough for use.
Being taken into custody on the bridge by Judge Zachary Grayport would've been without incident, except when the soldiers had searched his person, they found his pocket Bible. The Bible had been passed to the judge, who had thumbed through its pages briefly, then pitched it over the railing and into the water where Major Milton Pickford had disappeared moments before.
Now, Eric sat on his cement bunk, his hands folded, staring at the mold on the wall in front of him. Losing the weathered little Bible pained him, since he'd read from it daily for years in the woods. Its words had nourished him after coming to trust in Christ six years earlier. Thankfully, he had large portions of Scripture committed to memory, hidden in his heart, comforting him even now.
The loss of the Bible was a stark signal to the turn his life had taken. In a week, he would be executed. The man he was to die for, Eric himself had ensured Milt's escape on the bridge. Milt was a coward who'd broken under interrogation and betrayed a man who'd saved his life twice already. But Eric didn't hate Milt. Perhaps, Eric prayed, Milt would understand he was only doing for him what Christ had done for them all. After all, Milt had been captive to Eric's Bible reading each night when he'd been at the cabin. And now, Eric was Milt's scapegoat.
The guard outside the cell door was the tall man, Josh Hicks, one of the men who'd approached River Camp with a white flag. Eric had heard the guard's partner, Ed Newman, instruct Josh not to speak to the prisoner. It seemed it was going to be a long week.
The first couple hours of his captivity were a shock to Eric. He spent them in prayer and thanks as his fate sank into his mind. Burning to death would be horrible, but he focused on what would immediately follow: a face-to-face encounter with Jesus Christ. The horror of death seemed to pale in comparison to the honor of life eternal in the Creator's presence. A few minutes of misery and suffering, exchanged for an endless reality of joy and completion. Yes, he decided, he would end this life with steadfastness. The truth of all that followed death gave him the strength to endure the unimaginable.
He considered Andy, and prayed that his six-year-old son truly had accompanied Joel Grayport out of River Camp and back to the cabin. Hopefully, Andy's bitterness had waned against Joel, after Joel had accidentally killed his dog, Runner, that spring. Joel, Eric considered, the son of the evil judge, would become Andy's new father. God certainly used the base and unlikely things of the world to accomplish His will.
That evening, Eric was fed a bowl of broth and a biscuit. The broth was beef-flavored water, and the biscuit was rock hard. But it filled his stomach a little, so he was thankful. While pacing, Eric glanced out of the cell door window and saw that Josh, his guard, had received the same food ration. Life in Mastover had certainly gone downhill.
Eric spent a cold night hugging his ribs on the hard cement slab that served as his bunk. Breakfast was another biscuit, this time with honey-flavored tea—barely flavored. Midmorning, his cell door opened, and both privates, Hicks and Newman, gestured for Eric to come with them.
He was escorted without restraints up three flights of stairs to an office that may have once been a prosecutor's lair. Now, the law books had been removed from the shelves, perhaps for fire fuel, but a photo of the outside of the courthouse, in its glory days, still hung on the wall.
Judge Grayport sat behind the desk. Eric was directed to a metal chair. He guessed the wooden chairs had been burned the previous hard winter. The two guards stood behind him at the door.
The judge's dark eyes glared at Eric, but Eric wasn't afraid. The man's face was drawn and slim, having lost the vigor that Eric had heard the tyrant once had. The stress of leadership, the annoying resistance fight, and a dwindling food supply had evidently brought the once proud man to his knees.
"Commander Morris will be here in five days." The judge leaned forward, the light of a window offering sunshine on the floor near Eric's feet. "You're my peace offering for better supplies from the Liberation Organization."
"I hope you get what you want," Eric said, "but we both know you won't, not indefinitely. Commanders of armies are rarely good providers."
"I guess we'll find out." The judge waved his hand. "Except you. You won't find out. You'll be dead."
"Being a native of Wyoming," Eric said, "I'm surprised you would depend on strangers so much."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"This is Wyoming. You have everything you need all around you. God has provided everything. You don't need to compromise what you know is right to get supplied."
"God? Hmph! There's no God." He shook his head. "Would God allow all this to happen? That's the kind of psychobabble the Lib-Org wants to stamp out!"
"What'd you bring me up here for if not to hear what I know to be true?"
"How many resistance troops do you still have out in the woods?"
The man's face, though weary, showed a hint of triumph.
"I'm not aware of any resistance troops left alive."
The triumph left the judge's face just as quickly. He looked at his men, then back at Eric.
"They're out there," the judge stated. "A whole army."
"No, there's not. You won. The resistance has been demolished. If you continue to run with a cruel hand, you'll see more uprisings, but the present resistance seems to have been broken."
"What about your men?" He frowned. "That Major Milto
n said Mad Man's fighters are—"
"I'm Mad Man," Eric smiled sadly, "and I'm alone. I'm not a resistance leader. The major lied to you to save his own skin. I'm just a woodsman."
"But, you're about to die the death of a resistance fighter!"
"It seems so."
"You chose this? To die rather than to live?"
"Well, I'd rather live." Eric shrugged. "You're the one who's insisting that I die."
"But Major Milton was a real resistance fighter. You helped him escape!" The man rose in a huff and stood at the window, gazing out at the garbage-strewn street. Suddenly, he faced Eric. "You're a resistance fighter. You're lying to me. You said you're Mad Man."
"I abhor violence. I wouldn't shoot you if you gave me a loaded gun right now."
"Why . . . would you allow Major Milton to go free when you know I have to execute you now? Commander Morris will be here in less than a week! I have to execute someone."
"Major Milton has always been a weak man. He has his good qualities, but he isn't ready to die." Eric licked his lips. "What I'm about to say will explain everything."
"Is that right? Well then, speak!"
Eric hesitated. This was the man who'd massacred Christians and burned Bibles the previous year. If there was any chance of release, he was about to close that door permanently—unless the judge came to Christ . . .
"Right after Pan-Day, I realized if I would've died from the virus, I would've passed into an unknown eternity. That scared me. That's when I recognized I was a man with many sins, and I needed to get right with God. I received Jesus as my Savior and Deliverer. That's why I live a life of care for others. That's why I'm willing to die for Major Milton or even for you, Judge—because Jesus cared for me. Like Him, apparently, I'm about to die to keep others alive."
"You're a Christian." The judge shook his head. "Killing you won't break the spirit of the resistance. I'll just be creating a martyr for the other Christians to honor!"
"Naturally, I would hope you wouldn't kill me."
