B00M0CSLAM EBOK

by Mason Elliott

  A monumental effort was made to try to get all of the remaining, former slaves to remain in the camps for a short while longer. There they could be fed properly, healed, and strengthened. People could be identified and reunited with lost family or friends. And finally, they could be systematically relocated to a choice of places where they could find reliable housing, relative safety, and local support.

  Many of the places they insisted on returning to, especially in South Bend, were no longer there.

  There was also an exploding demand for much work to be done in general, in order to help the isolated population of Michiana find a way to survive what everyone expected to be a very harsh winter.

  This was going to be a winter without the protection of electricity or modern heating. Not to mention the dwindling food supply.

  Summer passed with each day. Every field available that could be planted with short growth crops of any kind needed to be put in. There was much to do, and it all became overwhelming.

  With the war over, Blondie still felt torn and confused. He knew his name, of course, for all the good that did him. But he still knew very little about his family, his past, and who he had really been before the Merge. Much of that still eluded him.

  The few memories that did return to him were disturbing and, from what he said, not at all helpful.

  In many ways, he remained a lost and broken young man, without purpose.

  Yet all the slim evidence they possessed pointed to the fact that he had most likely worked very closely with the enemy, as one of their elite mages and spies. Perhaps he even played some kind of role in causing the actual Merge itself, or–at the very least–he had worked closely with those who did.

  For the time being, at least, he still felt very loyal and obligated to his new friends and allies. He was in what he himself called an intensely satisfying, very physical relationship with his smitten but often bitchy girlfriend, Jennifer Gilbert.

  But both he and Mason often spoke together about what might happen to him and his current allegiances, once he recalled more of who and what he was–or had been.

  What would he do if he didn’t like who and what he had been before? Could he truly change? Could he remain who he was becoming now, as he went forward?

  What would happen if he actually chose to go back to being who and what he had been in the past? What then?

  Would he rejoin the enemy? Would he turn on and betray the people he professed to care about now?

  Could he turn against them? Fight them–even injure or kill them, if need be? Could they do the same to him, after they had all lived, and fought side by side with each other as friends and faithful comrades?

  All of these issues and potential issues caused Mason and Blondie no small degree of worry and distress. It weighed heavily on both of them, and served as the grist for many discussions that went long into the night, with or without strong drink.

  Blondie labored, impaled on the horns of his personal dilemma.

  Just who was he, and what was real anymore? What did he want to be now, and would that change drastically once he fully recalled his past and his old allegiances and patterns of behavior?

  His memory was going to return at some point. Each day that passed after the war, he recalled a little something more. And the cascade of thoughts, memories, emotions, and images only continued to trouble him.

  Some he shared openly with his new friends.

  Some he most likely kept to himself. Mason felt sure of that.

  But Mason had his own ghosts and demons to track down and finally put to rest. He couldn’t spend all of his time on Blondie’s problems.

  Now that things were more stable, Mason spent the better part of five days in Elkhart, searching locations, talking to people who might know or recall something, and tracking down official accounts and reports.

  The gray sky above him threatened heavy rain on that third day.

  He went to yet another city records depository and sifted through a bewildering number of hastily scribbled record sheets and accounts of casualties and dead bodies that were found and taken care of at that time.

  When his eyes bugged out from the strain, he even took a break and visited the house of Tori and her family.

  It had been cleaned up and repaired. A new family with younger children were living there now. When Mason explained the reason for his search to them, they allowed him inside.

  None of the Nelsons had returned home to the house thus far.

  The adults quietly told him about the various old bloodstains they had cleaned up or painted over, prior to them moving in. They said that the house had been ransacked a couple of times before they took it over.

  Mason found the spot, less than two blocks away, where a body matching the description of either Tori or her younger sister Tanya had been found by the burial details.

  Then, at long last, with the help of some elderly clerks back at the next closest depository, he located the actual document made by the burial detail recorder in that exact area in question.

  Mason sat down in the dusty clerk’s office, keeping the paper turned facedown, staring at the back of it with its stains and wrinkles.

  This was it.

  This lousy piece of paper that no one else even cared about–that had been misfiled in some box of documents–was going to tell him whether the woman he loved was alive or dead. Period. Forever.

  Mason sat there for a long time, staring at the back of that piece of paper. Afraid to know. Afraid to not know.

  One of the elderly clerks, doddering like any blue-haired great grandmother, knew what he was searching for, and brought him a steaming cup of herbal tea and patted him on the arm without saying a word. He thought he smelled rose hips and orange peel.

  Mason hated herbal tea, but it was the only comfort he had.

  He took the time to hold that warm tea cup in his hands and drink it all down over the course of a few minutes.

  He set the cup down, well out of the way, and took in a deep breath. He struggled to stop his hands from shaking.

  Mason exhaled, and flipped the paper over. He read.

  The document described the corpse of a young woman, aged approximately sixteen to twenty, with a major head wound. She had either fallen on her head or suffered a heavy, fatal blow. Part of her skull was obviously crushed. That was the apparent cause of death, and noted as such.

  Mason closed his eyes for a minute.

  Regardless of whether it had been Tori or her sister Tanya, at least the young woman had probably died quickly from a major injury such as that. He hoped she didn’t suffer in pain for a long time, without anyone to help her or comfort her in her last moments.

  He thought he might be sick, but he had to keep going.

  From the signs, the body had apparently been dragged from one of the houses nearby. Then, horribly, the report described the well-known signs that the monsters raiding that part of town had partially devoured the corpse.

  Mason prayed that she was already dead by then. He had read the same description on countless casualty and burial reports, and seen them firsthand for himself.

  The monsters ate or hacked the meat off the body, and left the rest of the mutilated corpse behind. That was simply what they did. They gulped the meat down right then and there like ravenous wolves at a kill, or they stuffed it into a sack to save for later. If it spoiled and turned rank, it made no difference to them. The monsters even seemed to prefer decaying carrion.

  When searched, many of the monsters were found carrying such grisly meat sacks.

  Then Mason read the rest of the description, and it hit him between the eyes like a hammer.

  The female victim had red hair, freckles–and brown eyes.

  Brown eyes. Brown eyes.

  Tanya had green eyes.

  Tori had brown eyes. The most beautiful brown eyes that he had ever…

  It was her. It was Tori. The dead girl had been Tori.

  Tori was dead.

&n
bsp; Mason’s mind raced out of control, and he seemed to have dropped down into a dark abyss.

  The girl he loved was rotting in a nameless grave somewhere and he would never see her again. Never kiss her. Never touch her, hold her in his arms and hear her laugh, feel her breathe. Never have everything he wanted to have with her.

  She was gone.

  He had always feared and known that this could be the answer. But he lied to himself for as long as there was hope.

  But nothing could actually prepare a person for such a thing itself.

  He went into a daze of shock. Mason rose up from the table and left the paper there. He had read most of it. No reason to read anymore.

  Brown eyes.

  He didn’t say a word to the old ladies. He didn’t even look at them.

  Mason walked out, and kept walking.

  As if on cue, the Michiana sky opened up and pelted him with stinging cold rain. His eyes rained down on himself as he kept walking.

  Screw it all. Screw everything.

  63

  David and Jerriel slept in the next day, recovering from their ordeal in every way that they could.

  In the early afternoon, they biked over to the library under a threatening, dark sky and made their report to the town council recorders and Dirk on defeating the demon. They gave special thanks to Father Michael, Pastor Bryan, Rabbi Bergman, and Jason Inada–the local holy men who greatly assisted them in completing that vile and difficult task.

  A stirring, edited account of the confrontation would appear in the newspaper the next day for all the public to read. The people needed to be warned about the potential of such supernatural threats. But the council didn’t want to completely panic the general public, either. Or have everyone rush out and, say, break all of their mirrors in fear of demons.

  Based on what they had learned, the council moved quickly and quietly to locate and help any of the demon’s victims who could be identified. Anyone willing to come forward on their own would be helped as well.

  A warning would also be included for everyone to beware of, and not to give in to, the pull of their darker sides. Especially since demons apparently fed off of them and only grew stronger.

  Those actively working under the evil influence of the actual demon who had committed actual crimes also needed to be dealt with.

  The town council immediately removed Judge Moran from the bench and advised him to take an early retirement. And re-think his own choices.

  Moran quickly fled to White Town.

  The Black Town militia commanders would get a warning about

  K-J’s aspirations to become a petty warlord in his area.

  David and Jerriel pooped out early that day, and went back home early to continue their recovery. Fighting powerful supernatural beings, as it turned out, was taxing and distressing work.

  After another good night’s rest, David and Jerriel went back to work as normal. Work that continued to mount as the summer days passed. The same ever-present threats continued hanging over them and all of Michiana.

  Where had the enemy gone? What were they planning?

  When and where would they strike next?

  Each morning, David and Jerriel met with the town linguists, furthering their language studies.

  In the afternoons after lunch, David helped train troops and select more troops for his strike force, and he also helped train the other militia forces.

  On breaks, he often took a walk, or went with Dirk Blackwood to review various projects.

  Like the one day they inspected the new weapon and armor smithies nearby. They had just started processing metal, leather, and cloth–and even high-strength plastic, to crank out good, assembly-line-quality armor, weapons, uniforms, and various gear.

  David hefted some of the new militia spears and pikes. “Looks like good gear, Dirk.”

  “Our troops will need the best equipment they can get their hands on if more invaders hit us. Those foes were sent here from somewhere, and seemed to be supplied pretty well. And that means there’s more of them out there where they came from. And these sinister Dark Mages of the Khabal leading them have yet to directly show themselves. But I think that they will eventually do so.

  “Nor am I forgetting that our foes also sent that evil demon to command those same monster hordes to crush us and turn us all against one another. And from what you said about that head mage in that enemy camp and again in the demon’s mirror, they’re also after Jerriel for some reason. Has she said anything about all that?”

  David shook his head. “She doesn’t know much for certain. She thinks that the Dark Mages want revenge on her because her father and mother opposed them for so long. Remember, she was in the process of fleeing Vaejan/Chicago when the Merge struck. She had just discovered that the Khabal was, in fact, secretly in charge of the colony there. And that they had played roles in both of her parents’ deaths. What was worse, her older brother had also sided with the enemy, it appeared, and was after her. But with the Merge, she had managed to escape all of that, at least up until this point. Now look at her. Jerriel spends all of her days testing and training our new mages.”

  Dirk crossed his arms, and then reached up and stroked his jaw. “We’re incredibly fortunate to have her helping us. We might not have made it this far without her. Under the circumstances, I think we need to increase the number of guards we have protecting both of you, Dave.”

  David nodded. “I agree with that assessment. I’ll pick them myself.”

  “Hey, I like that new unit symbol you sketched for your strike force,” Dirk held up David’s insignia design of a black hawk’s head set within a circle. “It’s going to be on all of your shields, and on your uniforms.”

  David smiled. “Yeah, the Blackhawks.”

  “I never knew you were a hockey fan, Dave. Or did you also collect old comics?”

  “Comics?” He gave Dirk a blank look.

  “Forget it, Dave. Way before your time.”

  “Dirk, hawks in general are a Native American symbol throughout the Midwest. Hawks are always good medicine. Hawks are warriors, hunters, explorers–they’re adventurers. That’s why I chose the Blackhawks as our elite unit symbol; there’s more to it all than just a hockey team.”

  Dirk clapped him on the back, “You got it, Dave; whatever you want. It’s the least we can do. You and your people have done everything we’ve asked of you...and more. Much more.”

  “Dirk, tell me true. Are we gaining any ground?”

  His friend sighed heavily. “Well, the troubles around town have dropped off a lot with that demon out of the way. But there’s still more crime than we expected. A looming food shortage and rationing is coming, no matter what we do. We’ll see how well all of that goes over, especially with the self-imposed outcast groups.

  “The surviving Amish and other farmers in the area are helping to organize our people into labor teams out in the fields. The seed company folks are working closely with them and our scientists to ensure that we have seeds for the future for various crops. We have greenhouses popping up all over the place. Notices are going out to help everyone plant old-style victory gardens in their backyards, if they don’t already have one. We’re posting public info on raising chickens, pigs, goats, sheep, cattle, horses, and any other livestock. Those numbers are exploding.”

  They moved on to the shops where bowyers and fletchers fashioned bows and crossbows, bolts and arrows.

  “I need some more bolts for my crossbow,” David said. “Can I get some today?”

  “I’ll sign a requisition and have four dozen sent to your house. Is that enough for now?”

  “Plenty. Thanks, Dirk. Well, I’d better get back to the training grounds.”

  “Hold on. There’s a new training area I wanted to show you. It’s a surprise. It just started up today, in fact. Follow me out back this way.”

  They emerged from a back door.

  There stood Jerriel and Danielle Callahan, one of their lingu
ist friends assigned to her, a young grad student with short black hair and eyes and olive skin.

  They both helped lead a class of over a hundred people. Everyone held a basic quarterstaff, the ends banded in metal–just like Jerriel’s.

  “A wizard’s staff is the first focus for their powers,” Jerriel said. “Some may outgrow it as a focus or move on to something else. Others will stay with it, if they choose. Some prefer wands or orbs as a focus. Some will just use their hands.” She stamped her staff on the ground. “As you can see, I actually prefer the staff.” She grinned at David. “It’s a personal choice.”

  A chuckle from her students.

  Correct that. Not quarterstaffs.

  Wizard staffs.

  Geez, check out all those recruits. Jerriel looked so ecstatic.

  She winked at him while he still continued to stare. He turned to Dirk.

  Dirk shrugged. “If there is magic out there, we need to be able to both use and defend against it. The new Institute of Magic is her idea.”

  “Any of them any good?”

  He laughed. “We’ll see. Half of them might wash out. Jerriel said only eight or nine of them are strong prodigies thus far, with amazing natural abilities.” He nodded toward Yosef.

  “Like the good rabbi there, and your enchanter friend.”

  Yosef Bergman. Robert Billings. David walked right up to them through the ranks and shook their hands, patting them on the back.

  Rabbi Bergman smiled back, still looking a little nervous holding his freshly fashioned wizard’s staff.

  “Come on, Dave,” Dirk said. “We don’t want to interrupt her class too much.”

  “No, we don’t.” He smiled back at Jerriel. She beamed and went right on teaching.

  “Picture focusing your energies into your staff and storing them there...”

  David and Dirk left the mage training area and closed the door.

  “That’s great,” David said. “If anyone can train them, Jerriel can. We do need wizards, about as bad as anything, I’d say.”