Monsters

by Peter Cawdron

  The troop stopped and made camp well before nightfall, picking a defensible position beneath a rocky outcrop. James figured they were heading due west, looking to link up with Gainsborough somewhere near Amersham. That night, Anders and Simon came over and sat briefly with James and Lisa.

  “You should not have run,” Anders said. “But Simon and I will testify on your behalf. There’s much in your favor. You fought valiantly against that jaguar and saved our lives. That will count for something.”

  “That will count for nothing,” James replied coldly. “This isn’t about desertion, it’s about Lisa leaving her father, and there’s only one way it can end.”

  James watched as Anders swallowed a lump in his throat.

  “Why did you run?” Simon asked. “What did you think you’d accomplish?”

  “I thought we’d be free.”

  “Free?” Simon replied, a hint of surprise in his voice at the answer.

  “You’re too close to all this,” James said, gesturing around them, looking across at the other soldiers setting rusting old bear traps on the approaches to the camp. “You don’t see the general for who he really is, an old man living out his dreams through your lives. He has no power over you other than the power you grant him, no authority other than your willful submission.

  “You show him respect, and he feeds on that, but the truth is, he has nothing. The army, this campaign, it’s an illusion, a construct to make you believe in something that’s as fleeting as the early morning mist.”

  Simon looked crushed.

  Anders was quiet.

  “There has to be more to life,” Lisa said, picking up on James’ comments. “We ran because we wanted to be free to live our own lives, not his.”

  Simon had his lips pursed tight together and James couldn’t read the emotion in his face. Was he angry, annoyed, bitter? Or was it that he could see their perspective and was deeply considering their words?

  Anders couldn’t make eye contact. He seemed uncomfortable with what was being said.

  “There must be another way,” James added. “Taking back the cities is not the goal we should be pursuing. The cities are nothing but mausoleums for the dead. It’s not the cities that are important, it’s what they represent, the triumph of mankind over the wild. I say, leave the cities to the monsters. They can have them. We don’t want to restore the cities, we want to restore our lives. We want to restore the dignity and quality of life mankind once enjoyed.”

  Anders breathed deeply. Simon began to say something but the big man put his hand on the teenager’s arm, gently signaling for him to hold his peace. “We will consider your words,” was all he would say.

  Anders and Simon stood and left the two of them sitting by the fire.

  “What is there to consider?” James asked, but neither man replied, and James got the impression their interlude with him and Lisa was part of some broader discussion. He hoped his honesty was what they were looking for.

  “Don’t be too hard on them,” Lisa said. “They volunteered to search for us because they didn’t want the others to get carried away when rescuing me. In their own way, they’re trying to do what’s right. If they hadn’t been with the troop, the others would have killed you then and there.”

  “They’ll kill me anyway,” James replied.

  Lisa was silent.

  It took another two days of travel before James saw smoke rising in the distance. From the direction, he knew Amersham was in flames. There was no honor in this, just petty revenge, and James wondered how McIntyre would justify this to himself. Those that didn’t die in the fighting or the flames would be easy prey for the monsters who would have sensed the carnage and closed in, ready to scavenge. James felt sick.

  “He didn’t have to do that,” James said, knowing Lisa would understand. He was sure Anders could hear him, but the big man didn’t acknowledge him. Anders kept the horse plodding along, his back straight and proud as he sat in front of his shackled prisoner. Lisa moved up behind James, resting her hands on his hips.

  “I know,” she replied softly.

  Tears ran down his cheeks, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

  “It’s not your fault,” she added as though she had read his mind.

  James gritted his teeth. Down in the valley, he could see a town stretching out before them. They were skirting around the city, passing by to the north, following an old bypass road. James could see the downtown area, but he couldn’t make out the library. He desperately wanted to make out the library, somehow seeing that building was important to him.

  “You know, I don’t even know its name,” he said.

  “What name?” Lisa asked.

  “The name of this town. I’ve been here dozens of times visiting the library, but it has never occurred to me to learn the name of the town itself.”

  Somehow, such a trivial detail suddenly seemed excessively important. His mind was manic, still reeling from the shock of seeing Amersham in flames. Now, it was as though just one small concession would bring relief. But names were meaningless, whether it was Durham, Greensboro or Raleigh, what difference would it make? He’d heard of those abandoned cities in this region, but what was in a name? What difference would knowing make? None. Nothing would act as recompense for the loss of Amersham.

  James had been defeated.

  There was no more fight left in him.

  He had thought he was fighting for something real, fighting to do the right thing, but his grandfather, his friends and neighbors had been brutally slaughtered and that realization left him crushed. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a hunt, one-on-one with a monster. His actions had led to the death of several hundred people, most of whom wouldn’t even have known who they were dying for.

  Although the warmth of the sun rested on his face, James felt cold inside.

  Chapter 12: Monsters

  By late afternoon the scouting party had rounded the town and James could see the main force of soldiers approaching them on the remains of the interstate.

  Anders sent Simon and one other soldier on ahead.

  Gainsborough and McIntyre rode out ahead of the troops to meet with Anders further along the crumbling concrete slabs of the interstate, at a junction leading down into the city.

  “Well done,” Gainsborough cried from horse back.

  Lisa was silent.

  “Has he harmed her?” the general asked.

  “No, sir,” Anders replied.

  The question was insulting. Based on that, James had a good idea of how the general’s justice would be dispensed, with just a pretense of due process before the execution.

  Anders dismounted, bringing James and Lisa down with him.

  McIntyre and Gainsborough climbed from their mounts and met with Anders.

  “You have done admirably,” Gainsborough said, patting Anders on the shoulder. “We have need of men like you in the officer corps. Your loyalty shall be rewarded.”

  Gainsborough stepped forward toward James, saying, “Sword.”

  One of the soldiers flanking James pulled his broad sword from its scabbard. He turned the sword around, lying the flat of the blade along his palm, wrist and forearm, offering the hilt to Gainsborough. Another soldier struck James behind his knees with the shaft of a spear, forcing him down before the general.

  “No,” Lisa screamed as a soldier intervened, holding her back.

  James felt his blood run cold.

  Gainsborough wasn’t going to waste time with formalities.

  James had expected to die, and yet as imposing as that prospect was, he had been able to think of it in an abstract way, as something detached from the present, but not anymore. Dark clouds swirled overhead, carrying a bitter wind.

  Anders flinched, his body seemingly repulsed by what was unfolding. He’d not wanted this, of that James was sure, but his sense of loyalty demanded compliance. Anders was a good man, and James knew he’d regret his part in this. James wanted to say something to
him, but he too was resigned to his fate.

  Gainsborough admired the blade. James knew what was coming. He bowed his head, not shrinking from the blow, hoping only that it was a clean cut and that death would come swiftly.

  The general raised the sword high above his head. James could see the shadow of the outstretched sword cast along the ground by the setting sun. He closed his eyes as his heart pounded in his chest. Every nerve ending, muscle and fiber of his being throbbed with life, as though a mere surge of adrenalin might somehow save him, but not this time.

  Lisa screamed.

  Anders stepped forward as the sword descended, blocking the blow with the shaft of a spear.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the big man said, his arms trembling. “I can’t let you do this.”

  “What?” Gainsborough cried.

  James looked up.

  “He should face a trial by his peers,” Anders said, his voice shaky and uncertain.

  “He’s guilty. There’s no need for a trial,” Gainsborough growled.

  “Anders is right,” McIntyre said, surprising James. “The rule of law should be upheld. Desertion under fire is a capital offense, but we were not in battle. He was absent without leave.”

  “He’s a traitor,” Gainsborough snapped, and James was astonished by the dynamic opening up before him with McIntyre and Anders coming to his defense. He wondered about their differing motives. Anders was a friend, conflicted by his allegiance to the north, but a friend nonetheless. McIntyre, though, had no love for him. The captain seemed pleased only to have caught the general on a technicality, and James got another glimpse of the tortured power struggle he’d sensed in the gymnasium when he’d first arrived at the prison.

  “And if desertion is the ruling of his peers, he shall be hung,” McIntyre said. “But the law is all we have. The law is all that binds us, you yourself have told us that many times. We must uphold the law.”

  Gainsborough was fuming, his face red with rage. He stormed off, making it no more than ten feet before he snapped and turned back, marching up to within a foot of James. “You will pay for what you’ve done. You will pay in blood.”

  James swallowed.

  “Take him away,” McIntyre said, and Anders dragged James to one side. Lisa ran to James, infuriating Gainsborough even more. The general cursed and swore, pushing his way roughly through the soldiers milling around the fray.

  As the rest of the soldiers approached from the west, someone pointed further down the road to the east. There, at the bottom of the off-ramp, a lone figure approached, holding a flag raised high on a standard.

  “Who is that?” McIntyre asked. He sent a runner out to meet the stranger while he went after Gainsborough.

  James sensed Anders didn’t know what he should do with him. Where was there he could take him other than out of the general’s sight?

  “I will talk to my father,” Lisa said. “I’ll tell him whatever he needs to hear to spare your life.”

  “It won’t work,” James replied.

  “I’ve got to try.”

  Gainsborough and McIntyre were in the middle of a heated exchange. Lisa went to walk over to her father but James put his cuffed hands out, gently touching at her arm. She turned to look at him and he shook his head. Now was not the time.

  The soldiers seemed excited about something. Looking down the road, James could see a flag fluttering in the breeze, it was the old standard of the south. It was only then he realized it was his father standing there roughly a hundred yards away on a rough concrete slab.

  “That’s my Dad,” he said, without thinking about what he was saying too deeply.

  “What?” Anders asked. The big man had his hand on James’ shoulder, ready to direct him away from Gainsborough and McIntyre, but he paused. He must have been as confused as James was in that moment.

  The runner came back, coming to a stop beside Gainsborough and McIntyre. The soldiers around them went silent, wanting to hear what was being said.

  “Who is it?” Gainsborough demanded.

  “He’s a soldier from the southern armies,” the runner began. “He seeks the terms of our surrender for the massacre at Amersham.”

  “Our surrender?” cried Gainsborough, yelling at the top of his voice. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  James wanted to run to his father. He pulled away slightly, but Anders held him firmly in his custody. McIntyre, standing beside Gainsborough, had been watching James. He must have sensed the connection. He tapped the general on the shoulder and pointed at James, whispering something in his ear.

  Gainsborough stormed off toward the lone soldier while McIntyre marched over and grabbed James by the upper arm, dragging him over with Gainsborough. Anders and Lisa followed closely behind.

  Bruce stood proud, with one end of the fifteen foot flag pole resting on the ground as the standard mounted high above rustled in the breeze. The southern flag, with its deep blues and greens, fluttered proudly before the approaching northern troops.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Gainsborough yelled, still a good twenty feet from Bruce as he marched down to him. “You stand here before me, a full general, while you wear the insignia of a private? State your purpose.”

  Bruce held his posture upright, but the crippling injuries he’d sustained almost a decade ago were plain to see in his lopsided shoulders.

  “You have attacked and pillaged a village of the south without provocation, without any formal declaration of war. That places you in breach of the treaty forged at Bracken Ridge.”

  McIntyre pushed James behind Gainsborough. Bruce ignored his son. His eyes never left the general’s gaze. James sensed his father didn’t want to give away any hint of weakness.

  “Bracken Ridge,” Gainsborough said, turning toward James. “Why, yes. Now, it makes sense. I thought it was James I’d seen before, but it wasn’t him, was it? It was you. I remember you from Bracken Ridge.”

  James could see the bitter intensity in his father’s face. With his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly forward, Bruce had his face set like a flint.

  “You sat there the whole day,” Gainsborough continued. To James’ surprise, the general’s mood seemed to lighten with the recollection. “You sat there in the mud, blood and piss. You sat there crying, cradling the head of a fallen soldier. Who was he? A friend? No. Your brother?”

  Bruce would not be goaded. James had never seen such determination on his face. In that moment, he had no doubt about his father’s ability to kill a man.

  “How pathetic,” Gainsborough continued. “And after all these years, here you are, a single man standing before an entire army. And you have the audacity to demand my surrender?”

  Bruce would not be mocked. “There shall not be a man among you that will survive this night,” he said coldly. “You will surrender, or you will die.”

  “Hah,” Gainsborough cried. He slapped his sides, laughing. Gainsborough turned to McIntyre. “Can you believe this? Even in defeat, they have balls of brass and iron.”

  Gainsborough turned back toward Bruce, staring up and down at him, examining his old, ragged uniform, such a contrast to his own crisp battle dress.

  “You come to me under a military standard with terms for negotiation,” he continued. “I respect that. For the sake of the laws of war, I will allow you to return from whence you came, but make no mistake about it. Any attempt to interfere with my troops or my course will be met with a lethal response.”

  James admired his father’s audacity, and he knew his father well enough to know he was following some kind of methodical plan. That Bruce wouldn’t bring up James and his captivity in the discussions, even though it was obvious for all to see, was typical of his father. Bruce never was one for blackmail. Gainsborough might have thought he held something over Bruce by having James in chains, but Bruce didn’t play emotional games.

  “There will be no further warnings,” Bruce said, his eyes locked on Gainsborough.

 
“Who do you think you are?” Gainsborough demanded, his voice rising in anger. “Where are your troops? With what will you wage war? You come to me without so much as a soldier in support, let alone an army. Look at me. I am a general. I command thousands.”

  Bruce pulled his lips tight with disdain. He spoke softly, but with depth and resonance in his voice as he said, “I am a reader. I command monsters.”

  Gainsborough stormed off with McIntyre following close behind, pushing James along with him. The general muttered under his breath as he strode back up the hill. For all their animosity a few minutes ago, Gainsborough and McIntyre now had a common enemy.

  Gainsborough was furious.

  “You think reading can save you?” he demanded of James. “You think words on a page can stand up against the might of an army?”

  James was silent. He tried to look back at his father, but McIntyre forced him on roughly.

  “Ready the troops,” cried Gainsborough. “We move out in ten minutes.”

  “But night falls,” McIntyre protested. “We should make camp, set defenses.”

  Gainsborough spun around with his finger just inches from the captain’s face, yelling at him. “I will not be made a fool by this village idiot. I will not dignify his ludicrous threats with a defensive posture. He’s bluffing. He means to make us look stupid. We will push through the city tonight.”

  “But sir, there is less than an hour of light,” McIntyre argued. “Regardless of his posturing, the city will be swarming with monsters in the dark.”

  “Then we will kill them,” Gainsborough snapped. “We move in a force so large no monster can withstand us. What will a bear do? How many could he kill before we skewered his head on a pike and raised it up as a warning? Or a mountain lion, are you telling me a thousand troops can’t dispatch a lion? What are you afraid of, McIntyre? Are you afraid of an old cripple from a lost war?”