The Seeds of Man
Page 25
There were other exercises too, including a hide-and-seek challenge that involved trying to hide from Smoke and Fade, a stick-fighting duel with Tre, and a series of archery competitions with Freak, all of which gave Crow ample opportunity to assess skills, force people to get acquainted, and forge a unified group.
They had been traveling in circles up until then, so by end of the fourth day the group was still on the west side of the Caribou Mountains. And, knowing that Voss could return to Star Valley at any time, Crow couldn’t afford to use any additional time. So without revealing where the cache of weapons was, he paid two recruits and let them go—one because she lacked sufficient skills and one because he couldn’t follow orders.
After they left, Fade followed one and Smoke followed the other to make sure that they didn’t circle back. And since neither one of them knew about the raid, there was no reason to worry about security.
Having purged the team, Crow led the group to the farm where roughly half of the special operations weapons cache was buried. The hiding spot was well away from the old house, the stand-alone garage, and the barn, all of which were magnets for people who happened to be passing through.
Once the cache was uncovered and the contents removed, the business of distributing weapons and equipment began. It was a process Crow showed very little interest in. Was he thinking about Star Valley? And his sister? Probably. But Crow was moody at the best of times, so there was no way to be certain.
Whatever the reason, Tre was left to supervise the process, rebury the arms that were left over, and divide the force into small groups for weapons training, tasks he had orders to accomplish by nightfall. Then, as the sun rose in the morning, they would ride. But to what? Victory? Or defeat? Tre hoped for the first but feared the second. He ordered the recruits in his group to field strip their weapons. Only one of them knew how. It was going to be a long afternoon.
• • •
Afton, Wyoming, USA
Lora was working in the hot, steamy kitchen and had been for more than a week now. It was hard, sweaty work, but preferable to the hole. Even if Mr. Oliver was a drunken tyrant.
She was a dishwasher, the lowest position in the kitchen’s hierarchy. That meant she was subject to abuse from Mr. Oliver and the more senior slaves as well. Tongue-lashings were common, as were corporal punishments, which consisted of being struck with a variety of kitchen implements. The results were bruises on her back since she spent most of the day facing the sink.
Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Voss and Miss Silverton were down south fighting Lord Hashi. The meant Mr. Oliver could begin drinking earlier in the day, and the more he drank, the meaner he became. All the staff could do was keep their heads down and hope that he would pass out, something he did with a great deal of regularity.
Meanwhile, Lora was working to remove some burned meat from the inside of a large pot and thinking about what she always thought about, which was the need to escape—not just for her sake, but in order to warn the people in the Sanctuary and to do so before Voss could attack them. If she failed, the food lord would enslave or kill them.
But how? It would have been difficult back when she was a maid. Now, after being tagged as a troublemaker, she had even less freedom. She had a plan, though . . . or the beginnings of one. And it involved the horse-drawn dairy wagon that stopped by the house once a day.
The routine was always the same. Mr. Perkins would guide his horses up to the back door, get down from the wagon, and lower the tailgate. At that point Lora would be sent out to fetch the containers of fresh milk, cream, and butter.
Meanwhile Mr. Perkins would go inside, sit down, and have a cup of tea. That meant there was a period of time during which the wagon was unsupervised. Could Lora take the last load of dairy products into the kitchen, return outside, and slip under the wagon unobserved? And could she squeeze her body into the cargo box mounted under the wagon bed? There was seldom anything in it, so that wasn’t likely to be a problem.
No, the main threat was that she would be missed before Mr. Perkins returned to the wagon. If so, the kitchen staff would be ordered to search for her. But, Lora thought, that’s the chance you’ll have to take. The alternative is to let Voss take control of the Sanctuary.
So the question was when, not if, and Lora knew she would have to make a split-second decision when the right opportunity came along. The problem was that a long succession of days had passed without producing the kind of conditions she needed. So there she was, scrubbing the big pot, when she heard a thump followed by a chorus of laughter. “He’ll feel that when he wakes up,” somebody said.
Lora turned to look over her shoulder. A bottle was lying on its side and Mr. Oliver was facedown on the table. Based on previous experience, Lora knew he was likely to remain unconscious for an hour or so.
Her heart was beating faster as she turned back to her work. Mr. Oliver had passed out earlier than usual. Was this the chance she’d been waiting for? Maybe. If Mr. Oliver remained unconscious and Mr. Perkins arrived on time, no one would pay much attention to her.
The minutes seemed to crawl by as Lora finished the last of the breakfast dishes. Every now and then she looked to see if Mr. Oliver had stirred and took heart from the fact that he hadn’t. Finally, as the people around her began to work on lunch, Lora heard the words she’d been waiting for. “Lora, Mr. Perkins is here. Go out and unload the wagon.”
Lora hung her head submissively as she left the kitchen and went outside. Unlike most of the overseers, Mr. Perkins was a nice man. He smiled at her as they passed.
Lora felt a rising sense of tension as she took the first load in. The key was to fade into the background as Mr. Perkins claimed center stage. He was seated next to Mr. Oliver by then and making fun of him, a rare treat, which the slaves enjoyed immensely.
The first load was followed by a second and a third. By that time Mr. Perkins had crowned Mr. Oliver with a mixing bowl and was in the process of placing a spoon scepter in his hand, so no one noticed as Lora left for a fourth trip.
Once outside, Lora took a quick look around, decided that no one was watching her, and ducked below the wagon. The cargo compartment was mounted underneath the bed, where its contents would be safe from bad weather. It was at least six feet long and four feet wide, so no problem there. But the box was only a foot tall. That meant Lora had to squeeze inside, and once she did, her nose was only an inch from the wood above.
As Lora pulled on the stick that served as a prop, the top-hinged door fell into place. She felt a sudden sense of panic. The space was too small! She had to get out. But if she did, all hope of an escape would be lost. Lora was wrestling with herself when she heard some muted laughter and knew that Mr. Perkins had left the house. The wagon shook as he climbed up onto the driver’s box and clucked at the horses. That was followed by a jerk and a rattling sound as the vehicle got under way.
Perkins would have to pass through the checkpoint where the driveway met the main road. Would the mercenaries inspect the cargo box? Or would they wave the conveyance through as they had many times before? Don’t look, Lora thought. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
A couple of minutes passed as the wagon rolled downhill. Then it came to a stop and Lora heard voices. They were at the gate. She was close, so very close. What felt like a minute passed. Then another. Don’t panic, Lora told herself. Maybe the mercs are inspecting an incoming wagon . . . Maybe . . .
Then she heard a scuffling sound and the door opened. And there, peering in at her, was Mr. Oliver. His eyes were red, his breath was foul, and he stank of alcohol. “Here she is!” he said triumphantly. “Thought you could run, eh? We’ll have none of that. Not while I’m on duty.” Then the face was gone.
Mercs appeared, jerked Lora out of the box, and air-walked her up the drive to a place she knew all too well: the hole. It was about six feet deep, four feet wide, and six feet long. Roughly the dimensions of a well-dug grave. The bottom was covered
by twelve inches of water mixed with human waste.
Lora felt the substance rise over her ankles as they dropped her into the hole. As she looked upward she saw Mr. Oliver appear. His lanky body was silhouetted against a rectangle of blue sky. “Mr. Voss will be back any day now,” the overseer said. “And that’s when you will die.”
As the wooden lid was lowered into place, she knew the mercs would place a chunk of concrete on top of it. Darkness replaced the sky, the stink filled her nostrils, and Lora was all alone.
• • •
Near Afton, Wyoming, USA
It was three a.m. and very dark. During two days of riding, the bandits had been able to cross the Caribou range, turn south at the town of Alpine, and avoid Voss’s patrols by traveling at night and hugging the mountains on the west side of Highway 89. During the journey, Fade and Smoke had been able to purchase four wagons along with the mules required to pull them.
Now, having bypassed Afton, the group was poised to strike. There were two objectives. The first was to raid one of Voss’s canneries, and the second was to rescue Crow’s sister.
Tre had volunteered for the second mission, knowing how much it meant to Crow and having full confidence in Smoke’s ability to lead the raid on the cannery. Crow was a dimly seen presence. “Remember,” he said, “most of the mercs are gone. But those who remain will outnumber us four to one. But we have as much firepower as they do. So if we stick to the plan, everything will be okay. Questions? No? Okay. Let’s do this thing.”
Horses nickered, and a mule complained loudly as Smoke led the wagons and fifteen riders down the road that led to the cannery. The rest of the group, ten in all, followed Crow toward Highway 89. They were wearing cowboy hats and dusters in the hope that passersby would think they were mercenaries.
The only light was that provided by a wan moon partially obscured by clouds. But it was sufficient to see the intersection with 89 and turn onto it. According to Crow’s spy, there were about thirty mercs stationed at the Voss mansion, half of whom would be off duty at three thirty a.m. So once the raiders forced their way in through the main gate and neutralized the weapons emplacements upslope from the highway, they planned to attack the barracks. Then they could break into the house and rescue Sara Silverton.
Tre felt the usual combination of fear and excitement as the mansion appeared up ahead. Lights could be seen in some of the ground-floor windows in spite of the early morning hour. Crow waved his followers forward and the horses broke into a gallop.
Tre heard shouts and saw a couple of muzzle flashes, just before Crow fired the grenade launcher attached to the underside of his assault rifle. The resulting explosion blew the gate open and allowed the lead horsemen to enter.
The surviving mercs returned fire, but they were seriously outgunned. Their Model 70 bolt-action Winchesters were no match for military assault rifles. As Tre fired at a muzzle flash, he heard a scream.
Having killed or seriously wounded all the mercs stationed at the gate, the raiders started up the drive. Now the advantage lay with the mercs. There were three machine-gun emplacements on the slope above, and all of them opened fire. A horse went down, rolled over its rider, and killed him.
But as the mercs fired the machine guns, they revealed where they were, and that was what the Deacon had been waiting for. He was on the ground by then with the shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon at the ready. He fired and was rewarded with a brilliant flash of light and a resounding boom as his rocket scored a direct hit. Scratch one machine gun.
One of the new recruits was there to reload the tube and slap the Deacon on the shoulder. He fired and sent another 83-millimeter rocket downrange. Another hit lit up the night. But that was when the Deac ran out of luck. A merc fired from somewhere up above, the Deacon went down, and the loader sought cover.
Meanwhile the third gun had been silenced by a combination of auto fire and a grenade from Crow’s launcher. That cleared the way to the top of the slope. “The barracks!” Crow shouted. “Follow me!”
Tre kicked his horse into motion. What was he doing here? The whole thing was crazy. Weapons blazed as the mercs holed up in the barracks opened fire. That was when someone uttered a long, piercing war cry, and Tre was surprised to discover that the sound had originated with him.
• • •
Lora was awake and standing in twelve inches of filthy water. All her senses were keyed up. She could hear the muted sound of gunfire as well as an occasional explosion. The house was under attack. But by whom? And why? The best bet was Lord Hashi. Perhaps a battle had been lost and Voss was dead. Maybe Hashi’s forces had already swept up the length of the valley and would attack Afton soon. Damn, damn, damn! If only she had waited. It would have been relatively easy to escape during the battle. But now, while trapped in the hole, there was nothing Lora could do but listen.
Then much to Lora’s surprise, she heard a grating sound and realized that someone was pushing the block of concrete off the lid. One of the invaders? No, that seemed unlikely. A merc, then, sent to take her away. But why? Everyone knew she was slated to hang.
Lora’s thoughts were interrupted as the lid rose and a moonlit silhouette appeared. Lora expected the man to order her out of the hole and was taken by surprise when he jumped in. A flashlight came on as the lid fell. And that was when Lora saw Mr. Oliver’s unshaven face. He smiled evilly and his sour breath enveloped her. “So you’re alive! Good. I have no desire to share this hole with a rotting corpse.”
That was when Lora realized the truth. Mr. Oliver was hiding from the attackers. And if she could kill him, there was a possibility of escape.
Lora had learned a number of things since being forced to leave the Sanctuary, one of which had to do with the male anatomy. She brought a knee up, heard Mr. Oliver utter a grunt, and felt a puff of fetid air hit her face.
The overseer swore, took a step back, and fumbled for the pistol in his waistband. Rather than let him draw it, Lora stepped in to wrap her arms around his. Bone met cartilage as her head snapped forward, and bone won. The bridge of Mr. Oliver’s nose collapsed and blood gushed down over his mouth.
But the overseer had some tricks of his own. Having clenched his hands, he bent his elbows and brought both of them straight up. That broke Lora’s hold and opened a gap between them. Then he threw a punch. It connected with Lora’s chin and threw her backward. Water splashed in every direction as she landed and Mr. Oliver threw himself on top of her. “Die, bitch,” he growled as he placed both hands on Lora’s chest and tried to force her head down under the filthy liquid.
Mr. Oliver was too heavy to dislodge. Lora knew that just as she knew that once her head went underwater, it would never come up again. Having failed to push the man off, Lora brought her hands down to explore the bottom of the pit. What she needed was a rock to hit him with.
There wasn’t any rock, but Lora’s fingers found something better in the form of a human thighbone. She stabbed at Mr. Oliver’s eyes with the fingers on her left hand. That forced his head up and back just as the club came up to hit him. He looked surprised, frowned, and was about to say something when Lora hit him again. And again.
Mr. Oliver’s eyes rolled out of focus and he toppled forward. Lora was trapped, and it was a struggle to wiggle her way out from under the inert body. Then, having managed to escape, she felt for the pistol. It was still there, protruding from Mr. Oliver’s waistband.
Lora stood and saw that the flashlight was still on and bobbing in the water. She bent to retrieve it, found a ledge to place the light on, and began to strip. The uniform was soaking wet and very heavy. It felt good to get rid of it.
Then, with pistol in hand, she stood on Mr. Oliver’s back. That made the difference. Now she could reach the lid. She made use of the gun barrel to shove it up and out of the way. The fighting was still under way. That meant there was a chance. Lora began to climb. She was halfway up when fingers closed around her ankle and Mr. Oliver jerked her down.
The gunshots were unusually loud in the confined space. Mr. Oliver jerked spastically, fell over backward, and collapsed.
Lora’s breath was coming in short gasps, and her heart was beating like a trip-hammer as she stood on him for the second time, pulled herself up, and rolled out onto the ground.
• • •
The barracks were on fire. Flames could be seen in some of the windows as the front door burst open and two mercenaries came out shooting. It was a futile gesture. They fell in a hail of bullets. Tre figured the barracks had a back door. If so, it was safe to assume that some of the mercs were on the loose.
“I’m going to enter the house!” Crow shouted. “Keep your eyes peeled.” With that, Crow slid to the ground, gave his reins to Freak, and fired a grenade at the front door. There was a flash of light followed by a loud bang. Wood splintered and a gap appeared. Two recruits followed Crow inside.
Tre kicked his horse into motion. What, if anything, was taking place out back? He circled around the north side of the structure and was about to pass between the house and what he took to be the servants’ quarters when a woman waddled out to yell at him. He pointed the carbine at her. She went back inside.
Having seen no other threat, Tre circled around the south side of the mansion and arrived just in time to see a strange apparition climb up out of what looked like a grave. Her skin seemed to glow in the pale moonlight, and he saw that she was clad in a bra and panties. Not a spirit, then . . . Such were his thoughts as she fired a pistol at him. Then she turned and ran.
The bullet missed. Tre urged his mount forward and quickly caught up with her. As he drew abreast of the girl, Tre took hold of the saddle horn with his left hand and leaned out over the ground. The fugitive wasn’t very heavy, and it was easy to scoop her up. “I’m not a merc! I won’t hurt you!” Tre said as he reined the horse in. The girl reeked of feces and he put her down.