Strikers

by Ann Christy

  A long moment passes like this, the crackling of the little fire punctuating our heavy breathing. My heart gives a jump in my chest when Maddix’s frame fills the space where the door would have been. Up till now, his face had been healing, the bruises turning a sickly yellow-green and the swelling in his nose retreating until he looked more like himself. It’s apparent he’s going to be starting that process over again.

  The whites of his eyes are the only thing on his face I can still clearly see. The rest is a swollen, bloody and battered mess. And he’s limping, almost dragging one of his legs. In the wavering firelight, I can see a dark streak that must be blood on his thigh, reaching almost to his knee.

  He growls a low, almost inhuman sound when he sees the man holding Connor, and Maddix’s hand reaches out like a claw toward him. The man jerks Connor backward toward a corner where he can see both Jordan and Maddix. His eyes are fearful but he’s still got the knife gripped tightly in his fist.

  “There are more coming,” Maddix says, his eyes never leaving Connor’s. “These guys were sent ahead to scout to see if we were here and make camp if not.”

  “Shut up,” the man says. His fingers flex rhythmically on the hilt of the knife. Whatever cool he may have had, he’s losing it fast. We need to come to some sort of resolution and the best resolution I can think of is that this man die.

  “Maddix, how many? How soon?” Jordan asks urgently.

  He shakes his head and clamps a hand to the side of it when he does, his face a mask of pain. I see him pale under his blood and bruises, the few patches of bare skin turning sheet white.

  Whatever move Jordan is planning on making must come soon if there are more men like this coming our way. I can see it in the way Jordan tenses and aims. Then his brows draw together—only the smallest bit, but I see it—and a look of confusion flashes across his face. I look in the direction of his gaze and see a gun slowly extending from a ragged hole in the ceiling. The hand and wrist attached to it, corded and strong, belong to Jovan. I’d recognize it anywhere.

  When he fires, it is directly into the top of the man’s head. We all jump at the sound and the man drops like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Perhaps even quicker than that. It’s a terrible thing to see, someone boneless and utterly without life so instantaneously. Yet, I’m glad of it, inexpressibly glad.

  Connor extricates himself from the tangle of the dead man’s limbs, kicking his body away to get free. He’s got a cut at the hollow of his throat but I’m relieved to see a trickle of blood rather than a stream or spurt. Above us, the sound of pounding boots rattles the boards, sending streams of dirt down between them as the steps cross the floor. It patters like rain onto our heads and makes the fire spit as Jovan passes over our heads.

  Jordan lowers his gun and sweeps up my pack, tossing it to me. “Gear up. We need to go. Now!”

  I snatch the pack out of the air and start stuffing the things I’ve taken out back into it. Cassi breaks from her stupor and starts pouring the last pot of water into a water carrier. Connor is tending to Maddix, and I feel like I should be helping him, but if we don’t get out of here and more men like these really are coming, no one is going to be helping anyone.

  “Can he walk?” I ask, nodding toward Maddix.

  Connor looks up from the bloody streak on his brother’s leg. He nods yes, but his face tells me he’s not at all sure of it.

  Jovan’s boots pound down the stairs. “They’re coming,” he says, his voice harsh and urgent. “I see torchlight. We’ve got a few minutes, tops.”

  Jordan seems to come to a decision. “Connor, take your brother and go. We’ll get the stuff. Just keep going as far and as fast as you can,” he orders. Maddix tries to suppress his groans when Connor gets him moving. I can see very well the effort he’s making, his jaw clenched and his free hand tightly fisted. But they do manage to stumble out of the back door and into the dark.

  “If these guys are expecting a camp, I’m going to let them walk into a camp,” Jordan says, tossing bags towards us as he speaks. He isn’t looking at me and I know what he’s saying. He’s saying he is staying behind.

  Jovan grabs up the bags and fishes around, pulling out clips for the gun. He checks that they are full and then hands them to Jordan. I see the look that passes between them.

  “No. We just need to go. They aren’t going to believe they’re walking into a camp after all that shooting,” I say. Leaving behind the father I just found to an unknown number of marauders is not an option I’m willing to entertain.

  “Cassi, go. Catch up with Connor and help him with Maddix. Go,” Jordan orders. Cassi just nods at him and gives me a beseeching look that begs me to come. She grabs two bags and runs.

  “Dad. No. I’m not leaving you. You have to come,” I plead and I can hear the waver in my voice.

  He smiles at my calling him that but it’s the sad smile of someone hearing it too late. He tucks the clips into his waistband and shoves his bag at Jovan.

  “If anything happens, take care of her. Get her where she can be safe. Safe and free.”

  Something passes between them, a handing off of responsibility. It’s as palpable as if they had just signed over custody papers. Jovan gives him one sharp nod and turns to me.

  When Jovan grabs my arm I shriek at him, heedless of the noise, and he responds by clapping a hand over my mouth and pulling me out the back door. I see my father tossing wood onto the fire, too much for such an old structure built of old dry wood. Then he grabs a burning brand from it as he crosses to the stairs.

  He pauses and looks at me for just a second, but it is the longest second of my life. Everything I have ever felt or imagined or dreamed about him runs through my mind at the speed of light. I think the same must have happened to him because his eyes are filled with more emotion than I can catalog.

  “I love you,” he mouths. Then I am gone and I fear he will be gone forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jovan drops me on the trail after a few minutes of my kicking at him. He grabs my jacket, pulling my face close to his and hisses, “You want to make him die? Keep doing this and he will for sure. Right now, he has the advantage. He could make it.”

  We stand like that, both breathing hard and staring each other down, for a long moment. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. The time for freaking out is not now.

  By the time we spot the others, I’m moving under my own steam and running as fast as I can, given the undergrowth and the darkness.

  Maddix isn’t doing well and we catch up with them far too quickly, even with the delay I caused by fighting Jovan. Catching up with them, I take the few bags they salvaged so they can focus on Maddix. He’s moving fairly fast considering his condition, but his leg is clearly hurting and his breath sounds like a bellows through this damaged nose and mouth. But we have no time to waste, so on we go.

  We’re well off the road, and the trail we’re on must have been made by animals because it’s irregular and too narrow even for my body. I’m being whipped by reaching branches and tendrils of thorny brush with every step. I can’t imagine how bad it must be for the others, particularly Connor and Cassi, who have Maddix between them.

  I have no real sense of time, only barely controlled panic, but it seems just a few seconds have passed when the first gunshots rip through the silence of the night. The woods play with sound, simultaneously muffling and accentuating the sharp reports so that they seem both far away and right next to my ear.

  It makes me stop short, my feet skidding in the loam. The sound does something to me deep inside. It’s as if every cell in my body is fighting a war with itself. The urge to run back, screaming in rage and tear at anyone in my way with my nails is exactly even with my desire to pull myself as tightly into a ball as I can and hide.

  Jovan grabs my arm and growls, “Don’t, Karas! We have to run.”

  He’s nothing more than a dark shape in the forest and I can’t see his face, but I can hear the de
termination in his voice.

  The others are having trouble keeping up with us, a struggling Maddix between them. He’s losing his battle to keep going and we’ll need to stop soon or I think he might suffocate. His breathing sounds like someone blowing bubbles underwater, or in the grips of a bad summer cold. We need to find shelter and tend to him, make sure there’s nothing life-threatening wrong with him.

  We need to stop someplace safe and wait for Jordan.

  The artificial shape of a tower outlined against the stars stands out ahead of us. We’ve seen plenty of those on our trip so far. Most of them are falling apart or falling down. Only one looked safe enough to climb up for a look around. Maybe this one will be sound enough. At least we might be able to see from there if there is some place to shelter once the moon rises.

  I point to it and Jovan squints in that direction. I whisper, “Tower,” when he doesn’t see, and he nods his agreement. Cassi swaps places with him and we start out. Next to me Cassi smells of blood, a metallic scent that is both alarming and strong. If I can smell it, then Maddix leaked a lot of it onto her.

  At the base of the tower, Maddix drops to the ground like a sack. Connor and Jovan follow, exhausted by bearing more and more of his weight as he weakened. The moon is only just brushing the tops of the trees. There isn’t enough light for me to try to examine the tower and see if it’s sturdy, let alone climb it.

  “We need a fire,” I say to Jovan. “Or at least the flashlights. Fire would be better.” With fire I can boil water before using it to clean Maddix’s wounds, decreasing the risk of infection.

  Jovan’s eyes are uncertain, but he can see the dark smear that is Maddix’s face as well as I can and he knows what I mean. He starts digging through the bags until he comes up with the smallest of our flashlights and shines the light for me.

  While Maddix’s face is a mess, it’s his leg that concerns me. The groan that escapes him when I pull his leg straight is weak and not entirely conscious. I’m glad because I’m about to hurt him.

  There’s just one small hole in his jeans, which isn’t good because that means the bullet is still inside him. I don’t think there’s any question that the first shot we heard sent a bullet into Maddix’s leg. When I slip the point of the small knife Jovan hands me into the hole in the fabric, Maddix stirs but doesn’t fully wake. I wait a second, then slide it upward, parting the fabric as little as I can.

  We have very few spare pieces of clothing and I know there are none for him aside from the uniforms, their personal goods having been taken and locked up. I’d like to save his jeans, or at least most of them, if I can. If there is one thing I can think of that can make getting shot in the leg worse than it already is, it’s waking up afterwards to realize you have no pants.

  The hole in his leg is so small it seems ridiculous, but I suppose any bullet hole is technically only the size of the bullet. Yet they are deadly. The smallest of things can end a human life. I have no earthly idea what I should do next. I’m no medic and I’ve never had any desire to be one. The very idea of dealing with the interior parts of any living thing makes me want to gag, to say nothing of when that interior becomes visible on the exterior. Even when Connor and I kill rats with our slingshots at the compost operation, he always cleans them before we cook them because I can’t.

  Jovan and I look at each other and I see my indecision mirrored there. He swallows loudly and says, “Okay. Basics of first aid. We march.”

  I wonder if maybe Jovan is in need of help himself because he’s making no sense. March? We just stopped. At my baffled look, he takes a deep breath, holds up a finger and says, “March. M is for massive bleeding.”

  He nods for me to go on, pointing with his eyes toward Maddix’s leg.

  “No, it’s just sort of welling up in the hole.” I grab a piece of boiled cloth from the kit Jovan has open for me and dab at the wound, watching for a reaction from Maddix. His face scrunches up but that’s all. I look at his pants leg, which is almost covered from thigh to ankle with a thick streak of blood, the material utterly soaked through. “But it must have been bleeding pretty good before.”

  Jovan reaches past me and presses a thumb into the flesh of Maddix’s inner arm and then shines a light on it. It goes from bleached white to his normal tan color quickly, so Jovan nods and starts counting off, “A is for airway and that’s clearly okay. Respiration, also good, though we’re going to have to help him with that nose. Circulation, looks good to me. I mean, his color comes back after I press and I don’t know how else to test for it.”

  He stops and drops his hand, clearly done, so I ask, “What’s the H?”

  “Oh, Hypo- or Hyperthermia but I don’t think we have that problem here,” he answers.

  “That can’t be it. I mean, he’s got a freaking bullet in there. Do we just leave it?” I ask.

  In the reflected light of the flashlight I see him pale and he says, “No. We have to take it out.”

  Connor and Cassi, who have been sitting there watching while supporting Maddix, both move back the smallest bit, like they want to be sure they aren’t volunteered for that particular duty. Connor strokes Maddix’s arm and tucks his brother’s head more securely into the crook of his neck.

  After we all look at each other for a minute, each waiting for the other to step up, I say, “Fine. I’ll do it. But can it wait? We need to find some shelter where I can do this as cleanly as possible.”

  Jovan hands me another strip of boiled cloth and tells me I should bind it up to keep the bleeding down and the dirt out. By the time it’s done, the moon has risen enough so that the world has turned to silver and black.

  We’ve done as much for Maddix as we can for the moment, so I look up. The tower above us is standing firm. None of the more common telltales of structural failure are immediately evident. It’s not leaning or sagging and there are very few pieces of it littering the ground around us. These are all good signs. I can’t truly see how much rust might be on it, but the number of dark streaks along the lower parts of the tower is surprisingly small.

  There’s no good way to climb one of these towers from the ground. The ladder rails don’t begin until a good forty feet or more up and it almost looks like they were designed to be difficult to climb. To me, that makes no sense.

  Why construct a huge metal tower perfect for observing wide distances and then make it hard to climb? Jordan told me while we walked that they weren’t meant to be watchtowers, but to function as communications relays. I couldn’t, and still can’t, see how that works but I’m grateful they’ve been left for me to use for a much more reasonable purpose.

  Getting up to the ladder rungs is the hardest part and involves the careful climbing of a rope with loops tied in it to serve as footholds. We’re in luck that our rope was still packed up and we grabbed it when we ran. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I’d get up there. Even with my rope, it’s precarious and dangerous. Aside from some minor groaning from the metal and a few wild swings when I unbalance the rope by missing a loop, it’s not too bad and I quickly transfer to the welded rungs. Each one requires testing with my weight, just to be sure it doesn’t crack off and spill me to the ground, which is sure to be fatal at this height.

  When I get high enough to see a good distance, I realize we got further than I thought. The collection of huts that made up the settlement isn’t visible by itself, but I know the distance because the red light of an inferno is shining above the trees. I’m not even all the way to the top of the tower when the unmistakable glow draws my attention. If size is any indicator, at least a few of the other buildings have caught fire.

  I think back to my last sight of my father, throwing far too much wood on the fire and then taking a flaming brand from it, and I know what he has done. This fire has been purposefully set, most likely to ensure that those who came after us became as trapped as he. Those flames tell me it is almost certain he will not be searching for us come daylight.

  My eyes blur with tears, bu
t at least I’m alone and there’s no one to see them fall. I barely knew him, but he was my father. He was the father I had dreamed of, wondered about, hated and wanted to know in equal measure throughout my life. And then he came for me, just as I had wished for during those times when I hid outside in the cold or nursed my wounds. He was everything I’d hoped for and more. And now he is surely gone. But this time, he won’t be coming to my rescue again.

  My arms are aching so I wipe my eyes on my jacket and keep moving upward. Near the top I hear a noise I recognize from home. It’s the soft “guh-runk” of a red-tailed hawk disturbed from its sleep in the nest.

  Bracing myself with one arm, I take out my flashlight and aim it upward. Poking out of the complex web of metal braces and bars at the top is the huge and messy nest of the hawk. It’s an old nest, used for many years, so the pair must be well matured and paired for a long time.

  I can’t bear the thought of disturbing them, so I settle for the lower platform. Balancing my butt between the bars, with my legs stretched out over the next few bars, provides a surprisingly comfortable perch. After a few minutes sitting still, the bird in the nest quiets.

  The inferno to the west is burning bright, but there is no other light in view from any other direction. I’m especially watchful of any light moving away from the settlement. Not just because it might be Jordan—which I hope it is—but because it could be the men that came for us who have escaped. But there’s nothing. It’s dark beyond the ragged circle of flames.

  There are also no lights to be seen anywhere else at any distance, and I can see for miles at this height. If there are any inhabited places around here, they’re not producing power or not using it for lights. To the north I see an unnaturally regular gap in the trees that must be from human intervention, though whether it is just tilled fields or an occupied village or yet another ruin is beyond my ability to see. In the morning, if I’m willing to take the risk, I could climb back up, but that would mean staying within a few miles of the burning settlement—and any surviving members of the group that meant to take us. I’m not sure the risk is worth it.