by Oliver Higgs
From that point on, whenever she needs help, it’s Sampson this and Sampson that. She calls him “sweetheart” when he gives her a better portion of meat and flashes a secret smile when Barabas isn’t looking. It’s all very casual. She’s careful not to overdo it.
On the third day, I play into it some. When Sampson fumbles with the rope to untie Echo for another bathroom trip, I mumble something involving the word “brainless.”
“At least he has the wits to be on the winning side. I don’t see him tied up,” Echo says, glaring at me. Byron chuckles. Despite our mutual hatred, he can’t want to face a trial at Last Bastion any more than I do. His eyes flit to the plasbrid pistol on Sampson’s hip. He’d probably love to use that gun on all four of us. Echo is actually in range to make a grab for it. Barabas is watching closely though, and we’ll only get once chance. We have to choose the moment carefully–before Byron does.
Sampson escorts Echo a short distance into the woods again, and after they return this time, Sampson throws a lot of uneasy looks at his fellow soldier. I wonder exactly what seeds she’s planting out there.
The rest of the day, Echo and I are subtly at odds. She gives me dirty looks and disagrees with anything I say. It actually starts to make me angry, even though I know there’s a purpose to it. It gives her more opportunity to defend Sampson, for one thing, and any deception is probably worth cultivating, even without an exact plan. Meanwhile, Barabas grows suspicious and starts snapping at Echo to shut up whenever she speaks.
“Don’t be such a bully,” she mumbles.
He overhears and his eyes widen in outrage.
“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Keep your mouth shut, bitch. You forget where you are,” Barabas says.
“Where I am? I’m not on trial. Commander Bellring said I’d be free when we reach Last Bastion. He said Last Bastion needs women like me. I’m only tied up because he was afraid I might get some silly idea and try to help one of these two escape, or run off into the woods, isn’t that right?” she asks.
Barabas moves in close to her, seething.
“Maybe so, but we’re not in Last Bastion yet, and if you ever want to get there in one piece, I suggest you shut your mouth. You think this is a game? You know how many men died to free you?” he asks, flushing in anger.
Echo is silent a moment, then she says:
“How many?”
“Six,” Barabas says.
This has a sobering effect on all of us. We walk in silence for a time.
“I’m sorry,” Echo says quietly, then asks Sampson, “Did you fight against the Grass Man too?”
Sampson nods.
“You must be very brave,” Echo says.
He can’t help but stand a little straighter. Barabas has a deep scowl as he looks back. A brittle tension stays with the group.
Late in the day we stop for a meal, and Echo argues with me about what we’ll do when we get to Last Bastion. She hints that she’ll need a real man to protect her, because she can’t rely on me to get through the trial. False or not, her words sting me more than I’d like to admit. Sampson says nothing, but he sits up and his eyes rove slowly toward her.
“I thought I was quite clear about the talking,” Barabas says slowly, glaring at her. There’s a knife in his hand. He was using it to cut the meat, but his words give it a sinister aspect. An oppressive silence falls. Barabas goes to re-secure the rations in the cart. When he’s just out of earshot, Echo whispers:
“Why’s he always ordering everyone around?”
“Barabas? He’s just cranky,” Sampson says.
“Well, I don’t like the way he bullies you.”
“Bully? He doesn’t bully me.”
“Oh.”
“We’re the same rank,” Sampson says, frowning.
“He sure doesn’t act like it. Personally, I think he’s jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“You. You’re much stronger than him,” Echo says.
Sampson looks dumbfounded. He doesn’t know what to say. He buries himself in his food, embarrassed.
“To tell you the truth, he scares me,” Echo goes on.
“Barabas nothin’ to be scared of,” Sampson says.
“Maybe not for you. But me? He doesn’t like me. I can tell. You … you wouldn’t let him hurt me, would you?”
Sampson’s headshake is fervent. Echo gives him a grateful smile just as Barabas returns. He glares at her, angry and suspicious.
Toward dusk, it happens.
We’ve set up camp in a grassy enclave a safe distance from any roads. It’s been a long day and tempers are short. Echo calls for a final bathroom break before we’re to be bound for the night. Sampson moves immediately to untie her but Barabas intercepts him.
“I’ll take her,” Barabas says, reaching for Echo’s wrists.
Echo shies away in fear, and this time her reaction is genuine–Barabas really is angry at her, and alone in the woods, there’s no telling what he might do. Her eyes go to Sampson. She says nothing, yet the mute appeal is plain on her face: you wouldn’t let him hurt me, would you?
“No–no need, Barabas. I’ll go,” Sampson says. His first “no” is a bit too emphatic, however. It brings forth the deeper tension. He too reaches for the rope. Barabas looks at him in disbelief.
“Let go, Dumbshit.”
“I think I should take her,” Sampson says.
“You do, do you? Tell me, why’s that?”
“Just … Just think I should, is all.”
“You really are a dumb shit, you know that? Can’t you even see she’s manipulating you, you blind oaf? Stay here and watch the others. I’ll take her. And when we come back, I don’t want you talking to her. Not a single word.”
“Not a single–you know, I like talking to her. I like it, Barabas. And–and we’re the same rank, you know that? You can’t just–”
“Listen, you stupid f–”
Their voices rise with their tempers. They talk over one another. They’re both in front of Echo now, easily within her reach, their rifles slung over their shoulders, their pistols at their sides. Echo is in the middle of the rope-line, with I and Byron tied five or six feet to either side … which means I’m only a few steps from Barabas. Sampson is just beyond him. With our wrists bound, it’s going to be hard to un-holster a gun fast enough to get it away from them, but one of us has to try; this is our best chance.
But now that the moment’s here, I’m terrified. I’m not ready for it. Once again, I picture things going wrong in my head. Nevertheless, I’m inching closer. Barabas is facing away from me, and just as I steel myself to lunge forward and make a grab for his sidearm–
–he turns, sensing danger. I freeze, gaping at him. My intentions are plain as day.
“What do you think you’re–” he starts, his hand straying toward the pistol.
He never finishes.
Byron, unnoticed, has found a rock just big enough to matter. The first I notice it is when Sampson grunts and falls forward into Barabas’s back. Wielding the implement in his bound hands, Byron has struck the big man in the back of the head.
As his companion collapses against him, Barabas stumbles and spins around, drawing his pistol. Time slows down. The gun is coming up, Byron is ducking behind Echo, and all I can picture is the plasmic mass going through her. I’m moving, charging forward. He’s still drawing when my shoulder hits him from behind, bowling him over. The gun flies from his hand. I go down with him, on top of him, on top of Sampson too.
Sampson is senseless, but Barabas is angry. He’s rolling out, shoving me off. It’s hard to attack with your wrists bound. Where’s the gun? No matter, there’s another–Sampson’s pistol, still in its holster. I’m reaching for it–
There’s a formidable thud. Another, like wood splitting. It’s a sound I’ll never forget, because it’s Barabas’s skull cracking. Byron is smashing him with the rock. My hands are on the gun, trying to pull it free, but then
Byron is towering over me, the rock in his hands, triumph in his eyes. I’m too late–I’ll be his third victim. Four high-tech weapons on hand, and he’s killing us all with the simplest and oldest of instruments.
Echo screams.
She yanks the rope with both hands. We’re still tied together. Byron is already swinging forward, but the rope pulls his wrists off-course. The blow comes down to one side of me. Now the gun is coming free from Sampson’s holster, and I swing it around, and I’ve got Byron in my sights.
He’s sees it. He knows he’s covered. Rage and terror flicker through his eyes. Then the mask comes down, the smile, the twinkling eyes. His false face. He drops the rock and straightens.
“Good job. We’re free. Let’s get the hell out of here!” he says. “Find a knife to cut this rope–does he have one on him?”
He’s looking over Barabas. The side of the soldier’s head is a grisly mess, partially caved in. Byron isn’t bothered by it at all. I haven’t moved an inch. Echo stands apart, staring at Byron with shock and loathing.
“What? We’re free, aren’t we? What are you waiting for?” Byron asks, looking between us, exactly as though he hadn’t just tried to brain me.
“Yeah, Tristan. What are you waiting for?” Echo asks, but her eyes never leave him, and her voice is grim. I’m still aiming the pistol, which lends her question a different meaning. Byron puts his hands up, palms forward–or as forward as his bound wrists will allow.
“Woah. I just freed us, okay? You guys owe me. Don’t try and–” he begins
“Owe you? You would’ve killed us!” Echo shouts.
“–pull this bullshit now. I saved your asses, that’s–”
“You tried to hit Tristan with a rock! We wouldn’t even be out–”
“–what I did. You ought to be thanking me. Now find–”
“–here if it weren’t for you. You’re poison. That’s what you are, poison.”
“–a knife so we can the hell out of here,” Byron finishes.
There’s a brief pause as they stare at each other, chests heaving. Echo’s expression is pure fury. Byron affects mild outrage, as though he’s been wronged.
“You can’t talk your way out of this one, Byron,” I tell him.
Keeping the gun on him, I maneuver to stand. The pistol’s rubbery grip is warm in my hands. Maybe I should’ve shot him right away, before there was time to consider things. Why didn’t I? I don’t know. I like to think things through, I guess. To be sure. It’s something you can’t take back. True, I’ve wanted him dead since the morning of the ambush. Still, I hesitate.
Byron licks his lips.
“So this is how you treat your friends, huh? This is what you do to the people who help you most,” he says.
That sends Echo into another tirade. She takes a step toward him, her hands like claws, trembling with rage. She screams mutated vulgarities. Names are mixed in: Ambrose, Kitra, Jarvis.
“Don’t forget Starbucks,” I say.
“I didn’t hurt any of those people. You’re delusional,” Byron says. “It was all the Grass Man–and he’s dead now. You already got your revenge. So–okay, I took some money, is that what you want to hear? I took some money to carry something in my pack, God help me! I didn’t know it was going to lead to all this. I was desperate. I needed the coin. You can’t blame me for that, man. Bad people were after me. If I didn’t do something, I would’ve been dead before I ever got on that caravan.”
“I wish you had been,” Echo says.
Byron looks stricken.
“How can you say that? Didn’t we have good times? Echo, I–the things I told you, those were true. I bared my heart to you. Why do you wanna rip it out now? Remember what we had. I never meant to hurt you. I would never do that. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
It’s amazing–he sounds so sincere. I think he even believes some of it himself. He goes on and on. I get the feeling he’ll talk forever. It’s his best survival skill, and he’s honed it with practice. He contradicts himself in the same sentence and thinks of nothing it. He tries everything to get a reaction, to gain some semblance of sympathy or pity. It’s like he’s rolling down a hill, trying to pull us along, and whenever he hits a bump, he just keeps on rolling.
“Enough,” I say.
I know what I need to do. It will be justice, not vengeance. More than that, it will be a preventative measure. If we let him live, he’ll either get someone to come after us or go back to ambushing caravans or both. The world will be better off without him. And it’s not that I can’t pull the trigger. I’m just … waiting. For an alternative, perhaps, or a mental trigger, some sign that the time has come for the final drastic act.
“Well, do it then. Do it! What are you waiting for?” Byron says angrily, then switches moods without a moment’s pause. “You can’t do this. Not you, Tristan. Where’s your honor? I thought you were a good person. I thought we understood each other. You know I was just trying to survive, man! You going to kill me for that? Why? I set you free, and now want to murder me? What kind of trick is this? Can you live with being a murderer, Tristan? Can you?”
All the while, he’s gauging my reactions, but he sees not the slightest change. He changes tactics again.
“Okay, listen. I’ll leave, okay? You’ll never see me again. I swear by it. The truth now, the real truth. Just cut this rope and I’m gone for good, and may the old American gods strike me dead if I’m lying. I’ll go east across New Sea. I’ll never touch another caravan. I swear on my life. What … What do you want, man? You want me to beg? I’m begging. Okay, look–I’m on my knees. Is this what you want? Echo, talk to him, make him see reason. I don’t want to die, Tristan. You’ll regret this if you do it. You’ll think about it ‘til the end of your days. Let me go. It’s the right thing to do. Deep down, it’s what you want to do. I know it is …”
He looks at us both in turn. We’re emotionally stonewalling him. There’s a heavy silence. His eyes rove. He looks at the remnants of the sinking sun. A sheen of tears is reflected in the dying light. Byron shakes his head slightly.
“I didn’t want it to be this way. I didn’t,” he says quietly, and for once I believe him. He’s doesn’t mean the caravaners and such–he couldn’t care less about them. He means his life as a whole. It’s his last resort: sincerity. He’s touching something real, a feeling beneath it all, a memory perhaps, a lost hope. Now I wish I had shot him that first instant.
I’m silent still. His breath goes out in a sudden huff. He deflates like a balloon. His head drops. When he raises it, he’s lost all hope. He knows I can’t be swayed. And with the hope, everything else has fallen away; the masks and tricks, the goals and worries, the burdens of the living. Here, for the first time, is the real Byron: the bleak and tortured soul struggling for all its years to outmaneuver a hostile and uncaring world, a place full of thorns and nettles, where tricks and bold talk were the only tools capable of clearing a path. Now the world has beaten him. The path has closed.
“Do it then,” he whispers.
I don’t hate him now. But it doesn’t change anything.
“Better luck next life,” I say.
The roar of the pistol echoes through the hills.
Chapter 19.
Barabas does have a knife, as it happens. I find it on his corpse and trade it for the pistol. I can’t get an angle at my own bonds, so I cut Echo’s first. I’m not really involved in the actions of my body, however. I’m shell-shocked. It’s not easy to watch someone die, especially when you’re killing them. The adrenaline is coming down now, the heart settling, and the usual shakiness sets in. But there’s a stillness beneath, an unshakeable bedrock. It’s not like before. We’ve crossed a line. We can’t go back.
Echo’s watching me. When her bonds are cut, she takes the knife and returns the favor. Then her arms are around me. It wakes me up a little, but I’m still kind of distant. I can’t engage.
“You did what you had to do,” she
says, squeezing. She repeats it several times.
We collect the weapons and put them on the cart with our supplies and rations. In the process, we check Sampson over and see that he’s still alive. He moans when Echo moves him. His skull is intact and he’s not bleeding too badly, though a lump is developing. We’re guessing he’ll recover soon. Then we have to decide what to do with him.
“He’ll tell them about us at Last Bastion. He’ll give them our names and description. They’ll send someone after us …” Echo says.
If we let him go. She leaves that part unsaid. Standing over him, we both know what Byron would’ve done. It’s both logical and ruthless. It’s what we should do too for our own safety. There’s a fair chance no one will find us, but there’s a much better chance no one will even look … if Sampson never makes it to Last Bastion. Eventually someone from his battalion is bound to return home and ask around for the two missing soldiers, but all they’ll be able to determine is that the five of us disappeared en route.
Sampson isn’t Byron, however. He’s just a simple-minded man, a soldier on escort duty. He even fought against the Grass Man. Finishing him off may be better for our survival, but survival isn’t everything. You also have to live with yourself.
“I’m tired of killing people,” I tell Echo. She gives a small nod.
We talk about tying him up, but out here that would be just as good as shooting him. Instead we leave him some rations and supplies, along with his knife, and we disappear into the west.
West is the simple choice. South would bring us to Commander Bellring’s battalion. To the north lies Last Bastion. East–well, we don’t know what’s east, but there’s definitely something to the southwest …
Haven.
The Doctor said it was west of Pillar, which we passed coming north. First we just want to put some distance between us and the scene of our escape, but there’s no denying Haven lingers in the background of our intentions. I’ve adopted Echo’s goal for myself. Now that we’re so close, there’s no reason not to check it out.
