Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1)

by Jason D. Morrow

  He tore out of bed and rushed into the main area of the house only to find his father and his brother loading their rifles, while his mother and Abigail stood near the windows looking out. Melanie hurried quickly to Joe’s side and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “You’re staying in here with me and Abigail,” she said.

  “What’s happening?” But he didn’t need an answer. He knew this had something to do with Scruff Thompson and his men. They were here to teach his family a lesson. If James couldn’t pay in cash, he was going to pay with the farm. Joe only hoped his father wouldn’t have to pay with his life. “Ya’ll are just gonna fight them?”

  “We ain’t gonna sit here and wait,” Nate said, ignoring Abigail’s protest.

  “Please don’t go out there, Nate,” she said, grabbing onto his arm.

  Nate watched her for a minute, almost as if he was going to listen to her and stay back. But Joe saw him make the decision in his mind. Neither of the men said anything as they charged out the door. Joe started to run after them, but Melanie had a strong grip on his arms.

  “You’re staying with us, son.” She pulled him back to her and hugged him tightly. “Come on, let’s get to the back bedroom.”

  The loud explosion of his father’s and brother’s rifles went off into the night, giving Joe a start. And most of the return fire hit into the side of the house. Windows and plates shattered as bullets whizzed through the air. Abigail, Melanie, and Joe all dropped to the floor amidst the chaotic noise of splitting wood and broken glass. As the three of them crawled toward the back bedroom, Joe could hear the whoops and hollers of laughing men outside. Were Nate and James already dead? Were the others coming in to finish off the rest of them?

  They crawled faster, finally making it to the back room. Melanie got to her knees and motioned for Joe to get under the bed. “Hurry,” she said.

  More bullets smacked into the house as he crawled into the seemingly endless darkness under the bed. The bedroom window shattered to the floor and it only motivated him to move faster. Once under the bed, he looked out to his right to call for his mother.

  “There’s room, come under here with me!”

  More whizzing bullets. With one of them, Joe heard a soft thud like a bullet might have hit the mattress. His mother fell on her belly and Joe expected her to start crawling under the bed beside him, but she never moved.

  He then heard Abigail let out a terrible scream and suddenly she was lying on the floor as well.

  “Come on!” Joe nearly screamed. “Get under here!”

  But neither of them moved. He looked them up and down, wondering why they weren’t responding to him when his eyes stopped instantly on the floor next to his mother. Seeping through her clothes was some dark liquid, and beside her that liquid began to pool.

  Joe’s teeth clenched tightly as he tried to fight back tears, but he quickly gave up his resistance. Her piercing eyes stared into his and she blinked calmly. A thin line of blood slipped past her lips and down to the floor. She looked like she wanted to say something, but the words never came. Joe reached out and grabbed her hand. Why did it feel so cold?

  He didn’t know how long he stayed there holding his mother’s hand, crying quietly to himself. He knew she was dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. Abigail was dead too, Joe just knew it, but he couldn’t move out from under the bed.

  The rest of the night was a blur. He remembered his father and brother coming in, both of them screaming, weeping. James held Melanie and Nate held Abigail while Joe sat on the bed and stared straight ahead into the living area. He wondered why no one was outside trying to put out the fires, but that’s when he assumed all was lost.

  His mother was gone. Abigail was gone. The farm was gone. Scruff Thompson had received his payment in full and then some.

  Joe then heard Nate cursing loudly, smashing his fist into the floor until his knuckles bled.

  “I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna kill him!” Nate yelled over and over.

  To this, James said nothing. His expression was a blank stare now, even as Nate loaded his rifle and six-shooter and declared that he was going finish Scruff Thompson once and for all.

  Joe wanted to tell him not to go, but he didn’t say anything either. He just watched as his brother went out with revenge in his heart.

  Joe kept expecting to wake up from this terrible nightmare, but he never did. This was his life now. Joe, his brother, and his father would never be the same.

  Joe

  Autumn, 898 A.O.M.

  Most of the Renegades took the news of the Warlord’s death in stride or with very little concern. There were a few, Joe noticed, who seemed nervous about the idea since it meant there was going to be a new leader. Joe supposed that these few had become comfortable with the way things were and didn’t look forward to a new direction—especially one that would lead to more fighting. But these were the minority, which wasn’t surprising to Joe. Most of the Renegades wouldn’t have been Renegades if there wasn’t a bloodlust within them. Their inclination was to fight. The name they identified themselves by, in its very nature, meant to resist the societal establishment. Their hatred for President Jacob DalGaard gave them a thirst for a strong leader with the desire to take them to war with the president. That meant Clive was going to have to work hard for his votes.

  There were three baskets set on the ground in a line, each with a sign posted behind them with the names of each candidate, Clement, Dooley, and Clive. Each of the Renegades was to cast his vote by placing a pebble into a representative basket. Each basket was guarded by a soldier who was instructed to make sure only one pebble per Renegade was allowed. The baskets were covered by a cloth with a hole cut out so no one could see into it and be swayed by the number of stones within each. The basket with the most stones in it would be the victor. Of course, as Clive had explained to Joe, if he came within fifty votes, Clive could challenge the winner to a fight by proxy, which of course, would be Joe if it came down to that. But Clive wasn’t sure of his chances, first with the vote, then with winning a fight.

  All of the Renegades stood in the middle of the camp—a mass of 700 soldiers watching three men on a raised platform preparing to deliver a speech to them. Dooley was the first to speak. He went on and on about finding ways to make their weapons better and becoming more efficient in battle. Joe found it hard to keep his attention on the man’s words. Dooley was terribly boring and all Joe could wonder was what if Dooley stole just enough of the votes to take Clive out of the equation altogether? Perhaps 350 people voted for Clement, 290 voted for Clive, and sixty voted for Dooley? How many of those sixty would have gone to Clive? Was Dooley enough of a force to pronounce Joe a dead man?

  After a grueling twenty minutes or more, the Renegades started chanting for Dooley to get off the platform and give some of the time to the next candidate. Joe was glad to see Clement take the next slot, giving Clive the last word. Maybe it would mean he would be fresh in the soldiers’ minds when they cast their stones into the baskets.

  Once Dooley finally bowed off the stage, Clement stood in the middle and dipped his head to the crowd before him. Clement stood tall and proud. His long black hair was pulled back, his thick beard sprawled over his chest, merging with the animal skins that he wore. Weapons hung boldly on his frame like he was ready for battle. There were two six-shooters at his sides and a sword across his back. The look on his face was fierce, but solemn at the same time. When he spoke, his words bellowed out with a commanding resonance.

  “Dooley is hardly the man to lead us into the future,” Clement said. He turned his head to look at Clive who stood at the edge of the platform. “Frankly, neither is Clive.”

  Clive’s face seemed flushed and Joe couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. One thing was for sure, he didn’t have the same commanding presence that Clement possessed. He didn’t wear the same thick skins. He wasn’t especially tall or broad. And Joe doubted that his voice would be as b
ooming as Clement’s. If Joe had to make a guess, he’d say neither opponent stood a chance against Clement.

  “You see,” Clement continued, “Clive has been the right-hand man of the Warlord for too long. He has been a pupil of terrible leadership. If you vote Clive to the position of Warlord, then you will get more of what we’ve had for years.” He took a slow breath and looked throughout the crowd as if he was searching the eyes of every man there. “We need to go back to the roots of our cause. How many years have we been stuck with the number of soldiers we have now? How many of you joined with a promise to be a reckoning force in the name of change only to find out that you have doomed yourself to a life as a fugitive? The Warlord is dead. Fredrick Merk is dead. And I say we are better for it!”

  Clement’s remarks seemed to startle the crowd for only a brief moment, but slowly the idea started catching on and a slow but growing cheer rang out from the crowd, fueling Clement’s passion.

  “Who wants to move forward into the future that was promised you?”

  “I do!” Joe heard a man near him yell.

  Others mirrored him. “I do! Me too! Let’s fight!”

  “The president,” Clement said, “has been a cancer on this land for too long. With me as the Warlord, we will gain support. We will grow in number. We will take this land!”

  The crowd was in an uproar now. Joe feared their excitement would be so overwhelming that Clive wouldn’t even get the chance to make his speech—that he would be forgotten and Joe would be burned alive without so much as a thought. He should have never come here. Everyone was too unstable.

  As it turned out, Clement’s speech needed no more words. In a mere fraction of Dooley’s time, Clement and said everything these men needed to hear.

  The votes will be 700, to zero, to zero, Joe thought.

  His fears were relieved only a little when the crowd started to quiet down and Clive was allowed to take the stage, but his relief left him when he studied the man. He almost looked afraid. Timid. Joe already knew he could never command the same presence as Clement. This was over already. Clive wouldn’t even come within fifty votes.

  Clive stood in front of the men and the only sound that could be heard was the crickets rubbing their legs together in the night. Clive cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Did Joe see his fingers twitching? Was there a shake in his arms?

  “Men,” Clive said. “We have come to a new age.” His voice was not booming, but it carried well enough over the crowd. “It is the age of reason over emotion. We need a new leader, but one with a tactical mind and the ability to grow us. Your weapons are terrible. You need someone who can get you new ones. Your skills are equally terrible. You need someone who can train you. We need a place where we can reside without fear. Our nomadic lifestyle is killing us slowly. My friend, Clement, was right when he said that we need a change. But getting rid of me will not change a thing. Voting for Dooley or Clement will only get you more of the same. I say this is the age of reason, because all Clement can do is feed on your emotions with promises he can’t keep. But I can keep mine.”

  His eyes scanned the crowd until they finally fell on Joe. For a long moment Clive stared at him, almost like he was trying to communicate something, or perhaps he was contemplating an idea. Either way, he still seemed apprehensive about what he wanted to say.

  He took another deep breath and turned his eyes from Joe. “You can know that I keep my promises of change because I have already implemented change,” he said. “Today you’re voting for a new Warlord because Fredrick Merk is dead. And he’s dead because I killed him.”

  A collective gasp sounded through the crowd as if each man had been punched squarely in the stomach. Joe felt like he had just been betrayed. He watched as soldiers looked from side to side at their comrades, wondering what it meant.

  Clement took a step forward on the platform and pulled a six-shooter from his belt. “Traitor!” he yelled. “You’re a traitor to us all!”

  “Am I?” Clive said, looking at Clement. “Or am I the savior of the Renegades?” He turned back to the crowd. “How many of you have wanted a change? How many of you wanted new leadership? How many of you have hoped and wished that Fredrick Merk would die in one of the few battles we’ve ever had? How many times have you heard the rumors that Merk had been paid off by President DalGaard? If you side with me, I’ll take you where our vision truly lies. I have the boldness to act against a leader who doesn’t fulfill his promises. I’ll take that action all the way to the president. If you elect me as the new Warlord, you will have President Jacob Dalgaard’s head on a plate!”

  “I still don’t know what you were thinking,” Joe said as he leaned against a tree, staring at Clive who was tied up next to him. “You realize you’ve done nothing but seal our fates, don’t you?”

  “Well, we’re not dead yet,” Clive said. “I’m taking a gamble on you.”

  “What do you mean on me?” Joe’s fists were clenched tightly.

  “I mean that I’m taking this whole time traveling thing seriously,” Clive said. “It was you that I saw. So, unless you’re an extremely elaborate prankster, then I think we’re going to make it through this. Consider it a test.”

  “Oh that’s great,” Joe said. “Don’t you think there might be a better way of testing the whole traveling through time thing than to admit to the entire camp that we murdered the Warlord?”

  “Technically you killed him,” Clive said with a smile. The smile faded quickly, however, when both of them noticed Clement making his way to them. It had been Clement who ordered Clive to be tied up with Joe. It was a move to void Clive’s participation in the vote, but the rules were rules and Clive still had a chance. Clement still had him tied up so he wouldn’t get any ideas of sneaking out of the camp before the vote was finished.

  “That was a bold move, Clive,” Clement said. His jaw was set firm and he seemed angry. “Do you realize if this vote doesn’t go your way, you and your friend here will be dead tonight?”

  “Come now, Clement,” Clive said. “You have to admit that it was the right thing to do. Don’t act like we’ve never talked about it before. Assassinating Fredrick Merk was always on the table.”

  “But never carried out,” Clement said. “Besides, if I win, I’m not sure I like the idea of you having that over my head.”

  “So, that’s it then? You’re going to do away with me because I know what kind of plans you made? You called me a traitor on that stage but the only difference between you and me is that I pulled the trigger and you didn’t.”

  “Maybe,” Clement said. “But now I know there are people here who are willing to kill to become the Warlord. And you’re one of those people.”

  “I don’t even want to be the Warlord,” Clive said. “I’ll concede the position to you as long as you let me and my friend here go free.”

  Clement let out a chuckle. “You think that’ll do it, don’t you? You think I stand a chance of losing this little election?” He rested a hand on his pistol. “If I was worried about the election, I would have shot you on stage and it would have been justified. You’re not going to win. And as soon as them pebbles are counted, and I’m announced as the Warlord, you and your friend are gonna die in front of everybody. There’ll be no mercy for the man who kills for power.”

  “You and I both know I don’t want the power. Just let us go. Right now, Clement. The election is yours.”

  Clement spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s been nice knowing you, Clive.” He started to turn and walk away but stopped and looked back. “Actually, it hasn’t.”

  The crowd gathered again as a man that Joe had never seen before stood on the stage with a piece of paper in his hands. He seemed nervous and fidgety, probably because he was the only man of the entire group of Renegades who knew who was going to be the next Warlord and everyone’s attention was on him.

  This man, Joe thought, will announce my fate.

  Joe wanted
to believe that he would be back six years from now. He still wasn’t convinced that Clive wasn’t just crazy. Though, what he had told Joe already wasn’t enough to discount him. If Clive were crazy, he wouldn’t have given Joe information about his brother. If Clive were crazy, he wouldn’t have known that Joe had never killed anybody before. Clive knew something. He saw something a few nights ago. And Joe couldn’t really understand it. He wondered why his future self hadn’t just visited the Joe of the present? Why wouldn’t he have just come back and told Joe to avoid the Renegades altogether? It seemed like a rough crowd to be around, anyway. Why would he want to be a part of it? Joe had no disdain for the president. Better to be in a leader’s good graces than an outlaw’s. Of course, up until now, Joe hadn’t had much of a choice. Even if he had left Clive in Vandikhan, Joe might have starved to death or gotten eaten in the woods by some bear. All Joe knew was that if Clive was right, then he had a solid six years left, at least. It just didn’t seem like that was a possibility now.

  “The votes are in,” the man on the platform declared, though he could barely be heard. A few of the soldiers yelled for him to speak up. This time, his voice was loud, though still a bit shaky. “The votes are in!” he repeated. “In third and final place, Dooley brings in the least amount of votes with thirteen.”

  A few men in the crowd laughed at this, but most, like Joe and Clive, stared at the man on the platform, hanging on his every word.

  “And with a decided victory of 635 votes, the new Warlord is…”

  Joe’s heart sank inside him. Over six hundred votes. There was no way Clive was the winner. Joe considered trying to run despite the ropes around his wrists. Better to die with bullets chasing after him than at a burning stake, he thought.