She met their eyes; in each, she found nothing but resignation. Fatigue. These women were utterly without hope.
“I’m Alice,” she whispered.
“You can speak up,” the woman at the end of the chain replied. “It don’t make no difference. They’re off in their own little world, gambling and drinking, and we’re just…we’re just hanging around, I guess.”
She shook her shackled hands to drive home the point. If it was a joke, nobody laughed.
“Damn you!” the youngest hissed at Alice, the anger raw in her expression. She was maybe in her middle teens. “Damn you to hell for getting caught out like that, you bitch! Now we’re really in for it. Now, they’ll be taking us straight to Atlanta!”
The oldest among them offered a sorrowful nod of agreement. She pursed her lips. “No sense in beating up on her, though. We’re all in the same boat here, honey.”
The young girl sighed; her shoulders slumped and her eyes became glassy behind tears that trickled down her cheeks. “But now things will only get worse, Momma. Now things will only get worse!”
The women considered this in silence until one of the two who had not yet spoken opened her mouth. Her face was scarred by the fallout. “Is it true what he said? You really have a man out there?”
Alice nodded. “I lost track of him back on the main road. We were gathering supplies at a hardware store when they took me prisoner. Our plan had been to rendezvous at the home of a man we met earlier in the woods if things got tricky.”
“Buck? You mean the deer hunter?” the last to speak said. She was coltish, probably in her twenties, with blond hair that was forming crusty little dreadlocks. Alice imagined that, under different circumstances, she was quite a beautiful young woman.
Alice nodded.
“Oh jeez, that’s bad,” Momma said. “That’s a terrible thing, if your man goes there. You said you already met the hunter?”
Alice nodded, her expression a question mark.
“I’m surprised he let you go. He’s mad,” the blond said. “Crazy as an August rooster. I’m Brinn, by the way. This is Carol, but we call her Momma. And Loren,” she motioned to the woman with the scars, “and the little one there is Delaney.”
Alice forced a smile.
“Buck lost his family after the Reset. Roan’s raiders took his wife. They killed his sons. He…he buried them out behind that cabin, and he’s been out there in the woods ever since. Nobody ventures onto his land. Nobody goes near his cabin.”
Alice shook her head. “But he was kind to us. He gave us coffee and he fed us; he…he even drew us a map to Putt’s.”
“Then he also probably sold you out,” Momma said. “It was no accident that those men found you. Buck might not live in Bickley, but he understands how important it is to make the quota.”
“So what does Roan really want with us?” Alice said. She knew, but she had to hear the words spoken out loud. There had been whispers of his activities in Atlanta. Rumors about his warped views on rebuilding.
“Forced breeding,” Loren said, a sarcastic smile on her cracked lips. “He’s got some crazy name for it. Lebens—lebensomething. We’re his next batch of mares.”
Something delicate inside of Alice broke when she heard it. Lebensborn. She cut her eyes in disgust. All those years! All that time that she and Brian had stayed hidden—miserable and afraid, like a couple of rats in the wall. All the times she’d shut herself away in that coffin of a crawlspace after he’d died, shaking in fear while Roan’s men clomped about outside, tearing houses apart in search of the few refugees that eked out an existence in what remained of the city.
All those years living in darkness, and finally she’d gathered the nerve to leave, to turn her back on the home they’d made together. On the life they’d made together. And then, close to death, she had stumbled across an oasis in the form of the miracle farm and Ben Stone.
And now there she was, going back to Roan after all.
“Cheer up,” Delaney said ruefully. “You aren’t the youngest. It won’t be quite as bad for you.”
The men erupted in laughter at the outcome of a card game. The fat man had his head in his hands as Chad raked the chips from the center of the table. He winked at Alice as he stacked them.
He mouthed something to her and she understood every word, even from across the room: Gonna get you, girl.
TWENTY-ONE
The shed stood a fair distance from the house. Arthur carried the lantern, all but one panel shuttered in the darkness as ash swirled on the wind.
He cracked another panel after they entered the shed. There was a workbench and a wall stocked with hand tools. “Like I said, we’ve tried our hand at gardening, Ben. Callouses and an aching back is all it’s ever amounted to. Over here. This is what we’ll need.”
He went to the corner of the room and began moving tools aside. There were plastic bags filled with fertilizer, and when they’d cleared everything away, Arthur knelt. With the blade of a trowel, he pried up a floorboard, and then another. Six boards later, Ben saw a large metal box there in the ground.
“Go ahead,” Arthur said.
Ben knelt and brought it up, grunting. Thing was heavy. He swiped the dirt away.
“Go ahead. Open her up, son.”
He did, and the air left him in a startled gasp. Good lord, but there was an arsenal inside! The first thing he noticed was the string of grenades.
“How did you…”
“I guess we lucked into it, is all. I’ll just leave it at that. Can’t say it all works the way it should, but I doubt those grenades take regular maintenance. I clean the guns twice a year.”
There were automatic weapons, ammunition, some handguns. Ben didn’t know where to start.
“The post office is down at the far end of Main Street. The girls are in the back, I think, but the walls of that place are solid concrete. It’ll take a mighty blast to knock them out, and it’ll probably get messy. You need to draw the men away and just get in and out, if you want my opinion. It’s too risky just hitting the building full force with all those prisoners inside.”
Ben nodded. “Any suggestions?”
Arthur wore a grim expression. He knelt and rummaged in the chest until he found the package. “Use this.”
Ben turned it over in his hand. It was a pliable gel pack with a stainless steel nozzle. “Liquid flame?”
“A little goes a long ways. Eddie’s probably at the tavern, celebrating a little before heading north to deal with Roan. The man has a weakness for strong drink. Take this and put it at the corners of the old floral shop. That place is just an old wooden frame, and it’ll burn like a Roman candle. That building is two spots down from the tavern, so Eddie’ll have a vested interest in seeing those flames put down. It just might buy you the time you need.”
Ben slipped it into his duster. “May I?” he nodded at the chest.
“By all means.”
He took three grenades, a handgun and one of the automatic weapons—an ugly thing with a little snubnose pocked with ventilation holes. It had a funny clip, and Arthur took some time checking both guns before declaring them sound.
“Sweep your hand by this switch when you mean to get serious, Ben, but be ready. This little hornet will spray bullets in a line and you’ll be out of ammo before you know it. Actually, here…” he packed a couple of extra clips into the duster and showed him how to reload.
“Does Eddie know about this?” Ben said.
Arthur shook his head. “Nope. In fact, I think it might be best that you be on your way. He sends folks out from time to time—just to check on the families up here on the bluff, make sure things are okay. I doubt he’ll send somebody tonight, but you can’t be sure and I feel a little exposed just standing here talking with you like this right now.”
Ben drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Arthur. You take care of Gwen and Lucy. If we make it out of this alive, I won’t forget my promise. I’ll come back for you when the time
is right.”
Arthur nodded. “God be with you, son. You’ll surely need him to get your companion back.”
Ben nodded. He slipped back into the night, casting a single glance over his shoulder at the old man who had risked the lives of those he loved to help a stranger.
TWENTY-TWO
The gel reacted to water, and he had maybe ten ounces remaining.
He twisted the plastic cap off the nozzle (WARNING: EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE! HANDLE WITH CARE!) and spread the gel along the baseboards behind the flower shop. He used the entire package—there was just enough to trace around the side of the building as well—before heading to the rear of the property.
Main Street was deserted, though he could just hear the muted warble of country music coming from the tavern.
He checked the safety on the automatic and touched the grenades in the interior of his duster, his heart racing. His pack, including the seeds they’d risked everything for, he had left in the palmetto grove near Arthur’s house.
That would be their route out of Bickley. There was no other choice.
“Here goes,” he muttered, sprinkling a few drops of water on the gel. It ignited with a thunderous whoosh. Flames licked up the brittle boards; they flashed down the length of the building, the fire crackling hungrily as it engulfed the shop.
Ben sprinted in the opposite direction, darting behind the crumbling storefronts, angling toward the post office. From his vantage point, he could keep one eye on the burning building and the front of the tavern, and the other on the post office.
There was a long, uncanny string of minutes when the building was being consumed by flame, and yet there was no reaction from either the tavern or the post office. Ben watched as the inferno wrapped the old floral shop in billowing tongues of orange and yellow, the flames cycloning high into the night sky. A few minutes passed before the thin glass in the front windows exploded.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. There was another maddening minute, and then they finally came outside.
The tavern door flew open first. A burly man with a huge scar on his face stepped into the street.
“Aw, Christ!” he shouted. “Fire! We got a fire out here, Mr. Talmidge!” He ran back inside and Ben took advantage of the opportunity. He sprinted across the street and ducked behind the post office. He couldn’t see the blaze from his position—couldn’t see the folks making a commotion out in the street—but he heard them all the same.
“Wet it down! Wet down that rubble! Get inside with ye and get some fucking water, you idiots!” Quade shouted. “Christ, don’t just stand there!”
There were shouts and shrieks as the people of Bickley scrambled to protect what remained of their town.
Ben touched an ear to the concrete. It was dense, and he could hear nothing from inside. He crept around to the far side of the structure, risking a glance back into the street.
They had formed a line. Buckets of water now moved up and down the column as they soaked the crumbled remains of the building between the floral shop and the tavern. They spared not a drop on the fire itself; it had been a lost cause from the start.
A man in black—Ben quickly pegged him as their leader—shouted orders and comically stamped on errant embers.
Suddenly, as if tipped by the gods, he wheeled and fixed his glare on the post office. Ben shrank into the shadows. He counted to twenty and readied himself for another look and found the man in black now marching across the street, toward the post office, a pistol in his hand.
He was an inch away from a full-blown run, this man in black, and his face was set in a nasty scowl.
Ben took a shooter’s pose, the automatic at the ready.
Waiting.
He waited for the man to turn the corner.
He waited to cut him in two.
Instead, he heard the front door blow open and the man’s muffled shouting. It slammed shut behind him and he could only make out every few words.
“A fire at the…get them up and…mystery man running around out there in the…”
They knew.
The door clattered open again and Ben peered around the edge. A skinny mutie and a fat redhead scampered across the street to join the effort to save the tavern.
How many more were there inside?
Arthur didn’t have much to offer on the subject, although he had said that a fellow named Chad Mullens was the town’s jailer. Arthur said he was big and strong and mean as a snake, and that Ben would do well just to avoid him altogether.
Ben watched the street, unsure of his next move. After a short time, the door opened again and the man in black stepped out. He motioned and an older woman tentatively followed him. Her gaunt face was streaked with grime. She cowered, her eyes darting about in the dancing flames.
“Come on, come on! Shake a leg, you stupid cows!” the man shouted. He yanked the chain he was holding and, with a little cry, the woman stumbled forward. Another followed, then another and another. Alice brought up the rear, her hands chained in front of her.
She scanned the street before turning her attention to the inferno.
“You shouldn’t have done it, hero,” the voice hissed from the darkness. Ben heard the words an instant before the knife punched a hole in his gut. The air left him in a gust and he felt the blade grinding against his ribs.
The man was huge—a thickly muscled shadow that pulled the knife back and began to stab furiously at him, even as he pushed Ben to the ground.
Ben dropped the automatic. He struggled to breathe as the man searched for him with the blade. The first blow had found its mark, but the duster was thick and, while he was cut repeatedly, none had the same intensity as that first shot.
His torso was on fire, the pain worse than when the old man had put a slug in his shoulder.
“I’m going to fuck yer old lady,” the man snarled. He fell on top of him and Ben could see him. His dark eyes were filled with rage, his lips drawn back from straight white teeth. “I’m going to fuck her and then I’m going to cut her up, just like I’m about to do to you. I’ll make a meal of you both before the end of the night, hero.”
A crimson fury, a rage so total he felt like he was outside of himself, surged through Ben. He thrust the butt of his hand hard into the man’s throat and felt something crumple and fold in on itself. It was like crushing a flimsy wax cup.
The man’s eyes bugged and he lost his grip on the knife, his hands flying to his throat as he struggled for a breath. He made a sound that reminded Ben of a fish he’d once caught on the banks of the Deschutes River, back on the ranch. It had been a big old squawfish, and Mr. Brown told him just to toss it down on the banks.
“They eat the salmon and the trout, Ben,” Mr. Brown had said. “They aren’t supposed to even be in the river. We’re helping the native fish populations when we get rid of these species. I won’t call them trash fish, but the truth is, they don’t belong in this river.”
Ben had felt terrible, but he’d followed orders. The fish flopped around there, gasping and struggling and taking a long time to die, making that little choking noise as it stubbornly clung to life.
This man was now making that sound.
Ben scampered out from beneath him. He clamped a hand to his side, felt it come away wet, and struggled to his feet. He stumbled forward and drove his knee as hard as he could into the man’s face.
Chad Mullens—that was his name. Ben hated Chad Mullens and all he wanted to do in that moment was destroy him.
Mullens fell forward, his nose busted and his hands still fumbling at his collapsed throat. Mullens tried frantically to fix the crumpled cartilage in his throat—hoping to pry open his airway. Ben scooped up the dying man’s knife. His fingers were slick with blood, the handle covered in it. “You want to cut me up!” he hissed. “You want to cut me up and…and take away my Alice!”
He thrust the knife into the man’s neck and air, whatever had been trapped there, rushed through the gaping wound. Arteria
l blood covered Ben’s face in a hot mist. He yanked the man’s head up by a swatch of hair. “I’ll do you the courtesy you never would have done me.”
He slit the man’s throat and let him fall to the ground. Panting, Ben watched the life seep out of him. It happened quickly. The man’s fingers clenched and spread, clenched and spread, and then he was gone.
Ben stood, a hand pressed hard against his gut. The alley had become a butcher’s floor, a crimson carpet that was partly his and mostly the dead jailer’s.
He picked up the automatic and peered around the side of the post office, taking air in tiny swallows. It was the only way to manage the pain in his side. How many times had he been stabbed?
The fire still roared, but it had not spread. The townspeople, and now Ben noticed that most were disfigured, scrambled to protect their precious tavern.
The women were gone.
He slipped back around the rear of the post office. Sliding through shadow, he made for the tavern. The front door was propped open, but he couldn’t quite see inside.
“Christ,” he cursed. “Alice, where are you?”
The roar of a distressed engine suddenly split the night. A van, one of those old sprinter models, trundled down the street. It came to a skidding halt outside of the tavern and Quade hopped out. He vanished inside the tavern.
“Shit,” Ben muttered. This couldn’t be happening.
He tried to run, but it was no use. His torso throbbed, and he shuffled as best he could for the edge of town.
There stood the houses on the hill—Arthur and Gwen’s place in the distance. He had to hurry.
He snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, there they were. Two men flanked the shackled women as they were herded into the van.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He tried to pick up the pace and fell. This far down Main Street, the buildings were more widely spaced, and he was out there in the open. If they looked in his direction, he was dead. He pushed himself back up and out of the pool of blood he’d made.
The Reset Page 12
