He saw Pete’s grip tighten on his shotgun. Pete would fight to the death to try to save Sarah. There was no other choice, for as long as he had a breath of life in him, he would never allow what this band of scum was suggesting to happen. Cam prepared himself for the battle by entering into the mental zone where he ignored natural fear and made impulsively precise split-second decisions, where he would save as many of his own people as possible, and kill as many of the enemy as he could. It was a place, for better or worse, he knew all too well. His heart rate slowed, his eyes narrowed, his breathing evened out. Time stopped. Every shade and tone was clear and crisp; every sound, down to the droning of some distant bees, perfectly audible.
The men in front of the wagon grew tense as the atmosphere around them charged with apprehension. Those behind, back down the interstate, began advancing.
Cam picked out who he would put an arrow in first. The man had a ridiculous smile on his face that irked him. He was on the verge of swinging his bow into position. Eye Patch grinned nervously. Cam momentarily wondered how Slip would fare.
And then, everyone’s gaze suddenly shifted from what was before them to what was above. Cam watched the men in front of him dramatically divert their attention and stare over his shoulder. He cautiously turned to confirm with his eyes what his ears had already conveyed to his mind. A squadron of three aero-drones was coming in hard and low.
The effect was instantaneous. The bandits wasted no time forgetting about the wagon and its occupants as they took off in a dead run toward an embankment and the tree line beyond.
“Get underneath!” Cam yelled. He jumped out of the wagon and rushed over to help Sarah down. He then ran to the front of the wagon, tearing off his jacket off in the process. He grabbed Rheda’s bridle and gently draped the jacket over her head, covering her eyes. The other three dropped to the pavement and crawled on their bellies out of sight beneath the wagon bed.
“Make sure you’re not in front of the wheels!” Cam shouted over the pandemonium. Maintaining a firm grip on the horse’s bridle strap, he wrapped his other arm around her neck. He then pressed himself up against Rheda’s side in hopes of keeping her calm. At least she isn’t gun shy, Cam thought. Or was that another horse Pete had?
His thoughts scattered as the pavement around them quaked with impossibly loud explosions. Cam thought he counted at least four missile impacts, but after the first they all tended to run together in an avalanche of deafening fury. The heat waves that washed over him seared buckskin into his flesh. Chunks of cement slammed into the side of the wagon and rained down into its bed. Gravel sprayed Cam’s back and cut the hands of those covering their heads on the ground. The wagon would offer little protection if it took a direct hit.
Rheda jerked and whinnied under Cam’s embrace. He managed to keep her from rearing up by keeping steady downward pressure on the bit in her mouth.
More explosions, these farther away, sounded, or felt, like distant thumps in Cam’s momentarily damaged ears. The drones flew directly over, continuing a flight path that followed the interstate.
“Slip!” Cam yelled, though he couldn’t hear himself. “Help me clear the road!”
But Slip understood and rolled out into the sunlight. Together he and Cam pushed and grunted until they’d cleared a space large enough for the wagon to pass. Pete and Sarah had mounted the box in the meantime and drove the horse through the hole in the roadblock as soon as Cam and Slip had the way open. Pete slowed enough for them to clamber in.
“Let’s get a movin, Rheda!” Pete called as he whipped the horse up into a run.
The drones banked right and Cam was afraid they were going to make another pass. He looked back at the carnage. Dense gray smoke obscured much of the scene. Smears of blood and lumps of flesh littered the expanse of the four-lane interstate. He also noted the lower half of a leg amid the aftermath.
Pete yelled something over his shoulder. Cam saw his mouth move but couldn’t make it out. He was probably hoping the same thing Cam was, shooting a finger toward the aero-drones as he spoke.
To his relief, Cam watched the drones set a north-westerly course, leaving their work behind. He wondered who had been the intended target. It could’ve been nothing more than a practice run, some kid in front of a distant monitor let loose to train on expendable targets. Or, it could be that he’d been found.
11
They reached the trade fair site by 4 PM. It had its own security, sentries with rifles posted around the perimeter. Fairs like this one were some of the safest places in the Backland. Those who ran them tolerated no nonsense and possessed the resources to maintain weaponry and hire enough guards to ensure the smooth running of business. Almost everyone had to come to trade on occasion to obtain what they needed. For these reasons, trade fairs were in general left alone by the clans. Folks like Pete brought their wares, bartered for a booth and would stay as long as they could still come out ahead without low stock forcing them back out onto the road again.
This particular one was held in a sprawling, one-story warehouse with a flat roof. The building had survived the war virtually intact, lying stretched out before them down in a valley off to the right side of the interstate. A tall, thick steel pole, visible from a mile away, telescoped high above the field in front of the building. It had a sign on top. A few middle letters had worn off so that a “W” followed by a gap and then “ART” was all that was left. This had earned the fair its famous name. Pete pulled the wagon down an exit ramp and they drove the half mile to the site.
A guardhouse stood at the entrance of the paved field opposite of where the building lay. Pete directed the wagon up to the makeshift booth and halted Rheda.
“Ol’ Pete,” the attendant said in greeting. “Haven’t seen you around in months.”
“You know I’m like a rollin’ stone,” Pete snickered. “How’s business, Dave?”
“Comes and goes, like you,” the gate-keeper retorted. “You here to sell?”
“Why else? Figure this place is as good as any to kill some time for a few days.”
Dave eyed the other passengers, acknowledging Sarah with a nod. “You can vouch for these two?” he asked, indicating Cam and Slip.
“No problem. They’re with me.”
“Alright. You know the routine. You’ll need to check your guns.”
Pete grunted a reluctant assent as he handed Tim his shotgun. Sarah then gave him her pistol.
“You too,” Tim said to Cam.
“This isn’t a gun,” Cam said firmly, tightening his grip on his re-curve.
“Look here, mister,” Dave began in hostile tone. “It’s non-negotiable. It’s a security issue.”
“Exactly,” Cam dryly replied.
“It’s alright, Dave,” Pete coaxed. “This one won’t make no trouble.”
Dave glared for a moment and then conceded, “Since he’s with you. But it’s on your head, Pete, if he does.”
“Understood,” Pete affirmed. “What’s the deal with them bandits back up the interstate? I thought y’all kept that area clear.”
Dave looked surprised. “We do. You had trouble?”
“Almost. Thin, wiry man—wears an eye patch.”
“Oh, him,” Dave grumbled. “Calls himself the pirate. All bark—well, mostly. I’ll let the boss know and he can dispatch a crew up there to get rid of him and his trash.”
“They’ve been pretty well been dispatched, I’d say,” Pete returned.
“Oh yeah? You took care of them?”
“Not us. You didn’t see the drones?” Pete queried.
“Nope.” Dave paused in thought. “But I did think I heard a few explosions.”
“Affirmative. Much too close for my likin’.”
Dave frowned, “Who can ever tell what CENTGOV’s up to?”
“Regular occurrence, then?” Cam asked, breaking in.
“Nah. Very rare.” Dave answered with an unease that didn’t go unnoticed by Cam.
“Is th
e resistance strong in these parts?” Cam probed.
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Dave said in a tone very near mocking.
Cam controlled his impulse to plant his moccasin against the side of Dave’s head.
Dave motioned to an armed guard who raised a cross pole and Pete drove the wagon in.
*****
Pete found a spot off to the side of the main row of tents and temporary shelters. After parking the buggy and tethering Rheda, the travelers climbed down and commenced stretching their legs, looking around the lot to see who would be around for the night. A sudden unusual mingling of cheers and shouts arrested everyone’s attention. The four gazed down the length of the building to its far side where there appeared to be a wooden stage of some sort set up. A man was being drug roughly onto it as a sizeable group of onlookers yelled their encouragement at the proceedings.
“What’s going on?” Slip asked.
“I’d say he stole somethin’,” Pete alleged.
“They’re gonna kill him?”
By now the man had been forced to his knees, close to a large stump in the middle of the platform. He was pleading for mercy as he choked out pitiful sobs, stringy white mucous dripping out of his nose. His cries did nothing to lessen the force of the grip upon him, three pairs of hands holding him in position. Another man on the stage stood nearby clasping a machete.
“Penalty for stealing,” Cam commented blandly.
Slip turned from looking at Cam back to the stage at the moment the machete was raised into the air. It briefly caught the crimson gleam of the setting sun before falling swiftly and burying itself with a thud into the top of the stump. The culprit screamed as his hand popped off and plunked onto the stage. Blood immediately spurted out in a high arc from the wound. He was still being held firmly in place as another man stepped close, holding a short wooden handle with a glowing red metal plate mounted on its end. He pressed the plate onto the place where the man’s hand had been, instantly cauterizing the wound. The man screamed even louder as smoke rose from behind the sizzling brand. He then fainted and was left lying beside the stump, his severed hand only a foot from his head.
Slip stared, unable to take his eyes away and unwilling to believe what he’d just witnessed. He’d seen plenty in his time, but nothing quite like this. The way it was handled, the deed done as if routine, gave him a queasy unease.
Cam noticed his expression. “That’s how they keep the peace around here. Laws are enforced to the letter. Punishment’s swift and severe.”
“No doubt it’ll cure ‘em of his sticky fingers,” Pete chuckled. “At least on one hand.”
“It’s not his first offense,” Cam offered. “I guarantee if you go up there and inspect that hand, you’ll see he was already missing a pinky.”
Slip blinked at Cam, wondering if he really expected him to go take a gander.
“If he didn’t learn the first time ‘round, he don’t deserve to keep the whole thing anyhow,” Pete declared with a wizened wink.
Slip noticed Sarah was still looking at him, a look of compassion. She didn’t seem overly bothered by the episode. But it wasn’t right for her to be here, he thought. She was too delicate to have been party to such, even as a spectator. But he also realized that this was the life she knew. He could commiserate with the victim’s fear—the dread of being caught and the terror of the coming consequences.
*****
“How’d you end up with Cam?” Sarah asked Slip as the two sat side-by-side on the tailgate of the wagon. When they’d all finished dinner, her father and Cam had wandered off, leaving them alone amid the various inaudible conversations and scattered campfires nearby.
“I sort of just fell in with him. We were both traveling and both alone. I guess it just…worked out.”
Sarah watched Slip’s face closely as he talked. Slip was pleasantly at ease with her. He felt a surprising freedom in talking to her—a new and very welcome sensation for him.
She didn’t ask for any more explanation than that. Slip was grateful for her respect. Neither said anything more for several minutes. Slip simply enjoyed her nearness as she studied the stars whose light easily pierced and illuminated the clear, chilled night air.
“Do you ever wonder about the past?” she asked suddenly.
“Not too much,” Slip admitted.
“These same stars—they’ve always been there, always burning—even during the day, we just can’t see them. They were around when this land was a very different place.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, shifting his gaze upward.
“What happened?” she continued. “This whole place was obviously built for a purpose. At one time there was a plan. But we’re just using what’s left of it all now. What have we ever done?”
“It’s the Backland. That’s just how it is,” he drawled.
“That’s a cop-out,” Sarah insisted with intensity, shattering his lethargy. “My whole life I feel like I’ve lived in the shadow of what was,” she continued passionately. “Everyone has this attitude that it can never be anything different—that it will never be anything more than what it is.”
“It is different in the Free-zones,” Slip, recovered from his shock, replied.
“How do you know?”
Again, Slip was taken aback. “I’ve…I’ve heard it is,” he ventured.
“Me too. But who really knows? What if it’s just the same in there as it is out here? What if none of it’s true?”
“That would be horrible,” he admitted. “People would just give up hope.”
“Maybe the Free-zones can’t offer what everyone thinks they can,” Sarah elaborated. “Maybe we have to look further than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, exactly. But somehow I feel like our deepest needs—you know, the things that really matter—can never really be satisfied here.”
“Or in there?” Slip added, his implication picked up by Sarah.
“Or in there,” she confirmed.
“You mean religion,” Slip said.
Sarah nodded. “I guess maybe I do.”
“What about the war? Getting too deep into that stuff is what started it.”
“Maybe,” Sarah said. “But I wasn’t around. I don’t like to just assume we know all the reasons.”
“Cam has a Bible he carries around.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought he’d be into that sort of thing.”
Slip didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable, but he ventured to ask. “How did your dad and Cam meet?”
“I don’t know all the circumstances,” she said, not appearing reluctant to answer.”But I was a little girl. I just remember my mother nursing him back to health. I think he almost died.”
“Your mother? Evelyn?”
“Yeah,” she said, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Cam mentioned her name when he was sick.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“Is she still alive?”
Sarah shook her head. “She died not long after Cam left us. But we’ve seen him from time to time over the years.”
“Is he Free-born?”
“I don’t know. If my father does, he’s never said.”
“I can’t figure him out,” Slip said, wagging his head.
“It may be best just to let him be who he is,” Sarah responded with wisdom he realized he should heed.
“What about you and your dad? Where to next?”
“Oh, our plans never change,” she said, smiling faintly. “We’ll be off to pick some more after this, and then to another fair.”
“Sounds nice,” Slip commented.
“Yeah,” she agreed without enthusiasm. “It’s not a settled life, but we have a lot to be thankful for.”
*****
Cam and Pete strolled along together. Pete greeted friends and acquaintances, stopping occasionally to tell or hear a joke and to get caught up on recent happenings. Cam eventu
ally grew weary of attempting social interaction and wandered off by himself. The lot wasn’t full on this particular night, but there were dozens of tents and lean-tos set up in parallel rows. He passed a card game and was invited to join in. Politely declining, he continued down the line in the direction of the sound of a harmonica. He finally came upon the man playing it, his eyes closed, his foot tapping the tempo. It was a slow, haunted tune—probably an old hymn, Cam thought. The musician was too engrossed in what he was creating to even notice him stop and listen for a few moments.
Cam was growing restless again. It was his old familiar friend, his faithful companion. The forest had offered him the illusion of overcoming his compulsion always to be on the move. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was his, and he was finally, yes finally, content—or so he thought. Now he felt like he was back where he started, like he’d just run in a circle. Though he couldn’t even define what was chasing him. Why was his life this riddle? He never seemed to find the answer; wasn’t convinced he even knew the question. Maybe the answer did lie in Clear Creek. Maybe the answer itself would shed some light on the question.
But he also realized how foolish it was to make such an assumption. Did he really have nothing left to hope for except some ludicrous hunch based on an old journal and some obscure message from his condemned brother? Perhaps this grasping at shadows was a tell-tale sign that he’d finally gotten to the end only to find the destination as meaningless as the journey. But then again, maybe trying to read meaning into life at all was ludicrous. He tampered once again with the dismal thought that it was only some ancient animal urge propelling him forward, one pointlessly instinctive step after another.
The rage was long passed, as was the pitiless desire for revenge. He’d waded through and out of the dark channels of despondency, perfected cynicism and had his fill of empty pleasures. What was it that the preacher said? “For what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of heart…? For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief.”
Backland: Unremembered (Book #1) Page 7
