Andrew nodded frantically. He pulled Thomas’s right arm over his shoulder and dragged him away from the barricade to where the arroyo curved out of sight. Bullets crackled. Thomas jerked against Andrew as one found him.
As they approached the curve, a thought occurred to Andrew. How was James going to get out of there? He looked back over Thomas’s shoulder. James knelt behind the barricade as the first fanatics surged toward him. Rather than rise up to meet them, the old teacher pulled a round, bumpy object from his coat.
Hell’s bells! Where’d he get a grenade?
The explosion sent the oncoming fanatics tumbling. Most did not rise again. One fanatic lay bloodied before the heap of shrapnel-scarred rocks, not far from the twitching wet meat that used to be James.
Andrew snarled. Before he could put Tommy down to finish the wounded enemy, a bullet nipped his left ear.
“Run,” Thomas whispered in Andrew’s ear. His breath was hot and wet. “Too late!”
Andrew obeyed. The ground rose as the flat lands behind the hills opened up. The harsh stink of spent gunpowder grew stronger.
“Okay, we’re safe now,” Andrew babbled. He looked for a safe spot to put Thomas down. “John might have people to spare. We’ll be able to keep them down in the arroyo and —”
Men spilled down the hill to Andrew’s left, some not even armed. They ran toward where they’d left their horses. Far from being able to help Andrew and Thomas, the other townsfolk were routing. Mortar rounds exploded among the few holding the line.
War cries and invocations of the Howling God burst into Andrew’s ears. A wave of Flesh-Eater fanatics crested the hill. They streamed from the smoke, tearing into the retreating men like rippers or wolves. Dust from so many churning boots soon shrouded the hilltop.
One fleeing man turned and shot a hairy fanatic in the head. Another fanatic further up replied with his pistol. The townsman fell to his knees. The fanatic loped down the hill, drawing his saber to finish him off.
Despite his wounded companion’s weight, Andrew managed to fire from the hip. His bullet caught the oncoming enemy in the thigh and blew the man’s leg out from under him. He tumbled to a stop at Andrew’s feet. His grin revealed a row of sharply filed teeth.
“He’s mine,” the man laughed. “He’s —”
Andrew silenced him with a boot. Teeth and nose splintered. The fanatic’s laugh turned into a scream.
Before Andrew could put Tommy down, a mortar shell whined overhead. It exploded somewhere to the right. Andrew landed several yards away, atop the corpse of a townsman he didn’t recognize. A bullet had torn away the dead man’s cheek and most of his skull, exposing teeth and gray brain matter the first of the flies had already found.
Andrew looked away from the ruined head before his breakfast could make a return appearance.
Another body landed on top of him. The impact jolted his mouth open and squeezed his stomach entirely too much. He upchucked all over the corpse’s face. The flies would love that.
A chorus of joyful howls erupted from the hill above. More Flesh-Eaters were coming.
His only hope of staying off the menu was to play dead.
For a long time, the crunch of the earth beneath the Flesh-Eaters’ hobnailed boots and their bloodthirsty marching songs growled past Andrew. He stayed stock-still. The heat, the stench of his puke, and the buzzing flies oppressed him. Hopefully none of the Flesh-Eaters would stop for a snack.
Then no more came. Andrew didn’t move. There might still be enemy stragglers.
Minutes passed. The buzzing and the stink grew worse. One fly landed in the puke and flew straight at Andrew’s left eye.
Andrew squeezed his eyelid shut and slapped at his face reflexively. He froze. If any enemy remained, they’d know someone was still alive. They’d come and stick him and that’d be the end…
To hell with that. He wasn’t going to sit and wait to be dinner. He wriggled out from under the corpse and jumped to his feet, gripping his rifle tightly.
No man moved amid the slaughterhouse below the hill. But there were plenty of corpses, mostly the Carroll Town militia. Blankets of flies seethed over them. Vultures and other carrion-birds circled overhead.
A pair of crows dropped from the sky onto Thomas’s corpse. He hadn’t died from his wounds. In addition to the number the mortar had done to him, a knife wound grinned across his throat. Mercy or murder, Andrew couldn’t tell.
Andrew rushed at the birds. “Get away!” The crows flew away, croaking their displeasure. His anger getting the best of him, he threw a handful of rocks after them.
Andrew looked down at his friend’s corpse. Maybe he still had ammunition. He knelt and rifled through the other man’s pockets. A cartridge box with some bullets inside. Good.
Someone moved to Andrew’s right. He spun, raising his rifle. If it was some Flesh-Eater, he’d blow the bastard to hell and…
“Andy!” Sam gasped. He limped forward, dragging his left leg. He’d lost his rifle, but was still alive.
“Sam!” Andrew shouted. He rushed over and helped his friend stand up straight.
“Thank the Good Lord you’re all right, Andy.”
“You okay?”
“No. I was up on the damn hill when the fanatics bowled us over. Hurt my leg. They kept going. I played possum until they were gone.” He broke down crying. “I shammed while the others died. Damn yellow coward I am!”
“Sam,” Andrew said. A lump rose in his throat. Tears began forming in his eyes. “Sam! That’s what I did! If we hadn’t shammed, they’d have killed us both!”
Sam looked at Andrew for a moment. Then he looked down. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“No problem. Let’s get. Maybe we can find a horse.”
That was a big maybe. If the survivors of the battle didn’t get them, the Flesh-Eaters would. But Sam was a mess. He’d need to do something.
Andrew pulled Sam’s left arm over his shoulder. Sam gave his injured leg a yank. Andrew winced. Hopefully they wouldn’t need to amputate.
The two left the field of slaughter. The road was probably full of Flesh-Eaters, but there were other ways back to Carroll Town. Moving slowly, they crossed a wide expanse of stony ground.
Something moved ahead. Andrew raised his rifle, letting Sam’s arm drop from his shoulder. If it was some Flesh-Eater straggler, he’d make him pay!
Ken emerged from what must’ve been a gully. “Andrew? Sam? Oh thank God! You’re —”
Before Ken could finish, Andrew punched him in the face. He staggered. Andrew lunged, fist raised for another blow.
“Andy,” Sam shouted. “Andy, stop it!”
Andrew ignored Sam’s entreaties. “They’re all dead!” He struck Ken again. “If he hadn’t goddamn run, maybe they wouldn’t be!” He raised his fist once more.
“Please,” Ken begged. “Please, I’m sorry. They were shooting —”
“Andrew,” Sam emphasized. “We shouldn’t fight. Let’s just get home.”
Andrew looked from his friend to the cowering man wiping the blood from his nose. Slowly, he lowered his fist. “Fine,” he spat.
They probably didn’t have a home to return to anyway.
Andrew’s jaw dropped when the trio arrived at the Carroll Town gate. The women and children who were supposed to have fled filled the street beyond. All were dirty. Some were bloody. Only about a third were left. There were a couple younger men, bloodied and unarmed.
“What the hell?” Andrew gasped.
Andrew ran through the gate, Ken half-dragging Sam behind him. Andrew spotted Sarah. Dirt streaked her straw-colored hair. She held a bloody rag to her forehead. Andrew’s heart twisted at the sight of his distressed twin. He rushed over to her. They embraced fiercely. When Andrew pulled away, blood and dirt stained Sarah’s dress.
“You all right? What the hell happened?”
“Flesh-Eater horsemen.” She swallowed. Her eyes were wide in her thin face. “We ran right into them.” She paused. �
��We…we’re all that got away. The Flesh-Eaters killed or took the rest.”
Andrew wondered which was worse. Jacob had described the rituals in the Flesh-Eaters’ forts. The bastards believed they gained the power of those they ate. They also viewed those they defeated as theirs to do with as they wished. Andrew knew what that meant for women.
“Where’s Ma?” Andrew demanded. “Where’s Cassie?”
“Ma’s all right. She’s helping hurt folk. We’ve got them in Eric’s barbershop. Cassie’s back there, too.” Sarah drew a breath. “Where’s Elijah?”
Andrew drew a breath. If he told Sarah the truth, she’d know Elijah’s death was his fault. His mouth worked. What could he say?
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Andrew nodded. Sarah’s jaw trembled. Tears began filling her eyes. “No.” She buried her face in Andrew’s shoulder. “No.” He held her for a long moment. Her tears soaked into his duster. She pulled away and shook her head. She swallowed. “Come…come on. I’ll take you to Cassie.”
Andrew, Sam, and Ken followed Sarah to the town square. Cassie sat propped up against the front wall of the barbershop in the cooler combined shadows of the overhang and mooring tower. Her blue dress was torn in several places and soaked in blood. She held a bloody rag to the side of her head.
Andrew rushed over. “What’d they do to you?”
“He killed Grandpa,” Cassie moaned. “Tried to take me.” She dissolved into tears.
“A Flesh-Eater horseman killed her grandpa with a sword,” Sarah explained. Her eyes still glimmered, unshed tears thickening her voice. “He grabbed her. He got her on his horse, but she got free.” She gestured to the other woman. “It was a rough landing.”
Sarah knelt beside Cassie. She took away the bloody rag and tore a piece from her own dress. She handed it to Cassie, who put it up to her head.
“She got him,” Cassie spat. “Sarah got the bastard.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “You killed him? Good job!”
Sarah closed her eyes. “Thanks.” She examined Cassie’s head. “Bleeding’s near stopped. I might be able to stitch this up.” Then she looked at Andrew. “You’re a mess. What happened?”
“We got whipped. What else is there to say?” That reminded him. “Where’re the damned Flesh-Eaters? They should be on top of us by now.”
“An army can’t move as fast as a single man,” Sam said. “Maybe they’ve still got a ways to go.”
That was true, but the enemy had gotten a head start. And helping Sam back took time. Andrew’s gut clenched. “Sarah,” Andrew babbled. “Sarah, they’ll be here any minute. Everybody needs to get out of here and —”
“And go where?” Sarah demanded, voice rising. “We tried! Most of us got killed!”
There was anger in her voice and on her face, but her hands trembled. He didn’t blame her.
“Into the houses, then! Or out of the town, but not where you met the horsemen. There are places to hide, rocks —”
The whistling of a mortar interrupted.
Inspection
Surrounded by six black-jacketed soldiers of the elite Obsidian Guard and with his pterosaur Alrekr perched on his shoulder, Grendel, lord of Sejera and first lord of the Northlands, strode beneath the concrete archway into Fort Brooks. Jasper Clark, one-eyed overlord of the Flesh-Eating Legion, waited with some troops in the courtyard beyond. The bald cannibal rested his left hand atop a ripper. A black and crimson Flesh-Eater dirigible floated nearby, moored in front of the blazing sun. It cast a long but welcome shadow.
“Welcome, my lord,” Clark said, a smile splitting his wide face. Though he spoke formally, his drawl betrayed his mountain origins. Despite the heat and his armor, little perspiration shone on his head. Meanwhile, sweat gathered beneath Grendel’s gray-edged dark hair. His black frock coat and trousers had an unfortunate tendency to suck up heat. He grit his teeth against the discomfort while his vassal spun pleasantries.
“It is a great honor for us to host you,” Clark continued. “When you have visited our forts, I would like to entertain you at Jacinto.”
Grendel smiled back. The expression tugged at the long scar the battle with the Iron Horse had carved into his face eight years before. The smile lapped at his gray eyes, but did not swamp them. “It is a great honor to visit,” he rumbled. “However, I have urgent work to do and must refuse.”
He checked the urge to snort. He was only here because, four years after the breaking of the main Merrill army and the death of James Merrill, the Flesh-Eaters still didn’t fully control the old Merrill realm.
Not that Grendel intended to let them keep it, of course. There were richer lands further north, and though these badlands hosted only a few settlements clinging to the edge of the desert, men and taxes could be wrung from them. The Old World ruins — and there were more here than elsewhere — could be excavated for technological trinkets or means of war. Ultimately, they must belong to his blood — his son Havarth by Catalina Merrill, Alonzo’s captive sister.
But before he could replace the Flesh-Eaters with his half-Merrill youngest, he had to kill Alonzo, to clear the way for Havarth and show his strength. Ejnar Irontooth came for his family when Father returned from reaving with many corpses and little gold. Grendel had no desire for history to repeat itself.
So when Clark began building a series of forts linked together by the expensive new telegraph and hosting even more expensive dirigibles across the Merrill raiding routes, Grendel stepped in. He had given his subordinate the necessary engineers and Norridge’s bankers provided loans.
To his credit, Clark used the resources quickly and effectively. Masses of conscripts raised a chain of forts and mooring towers across the wide lands where Clark’s power was weak. The northern Merrill remnants were cut off from their fellows to the south and exterminated, the survivors crucified along the roads. Dirigibles ranged ever farther south, finding more refuges to destroy. A thrust into the high plains would soon finish them.
So Grendel came to see his vassal’s achievements and remind him who deserved much of the credit. He would sweep through the new forts, hobnob with the local notables, oversee the execution of some captured Merrills, ensure Clark was not tardy with the first repayment, and then return to Norridge. His subordinates Mangle and Quantrill were at loggerheads over a coal field. Coal fed the factories and the combines that allowed for greater harvests. And the disputed lands lay far too close to Norridge.
“What would you like to see first?”
“Where the dirigibles dock. Then the communications center.”
Clark pointed. “You can see the mooring tower from here.”
The skeletal mooring tower rose over the concrete bunkers of Fort Brooks’s citadel. The dirigible’s nose attached to a metal cone at the top, while a metal gangway connected the gondola hanging from beneath the balloon to the passenger platform below the cone. Chains descended from the tower, looping around huge gears. Ragged draftees guarded by Flesh-Eater soldiers stood ready to turn them.
“Want to take a closer look?”
Grendel examined the mooring tower. It resembled a smaller version of the ones in the capital, only powered by men instead of steam engines. The airship the tower hosted was also smaller — it could carry a platoon at most, while his airships could carry whole companies if not more. “How quickly can you launch, with soldiers?”
Clark smiled proudly. “Watch.”
He gave orders to a nearby pair of guards. One dashed toward the tower, while the other descended the stairway into the concrete depths of the citadel.
Grendel pulled his silver pocket watch from inside his coat. Adding two seconds to accommodate the order, he began counting down how long it took to launch from a standing start.
At the orders of the guard, the conscripts manned the gear-cranks. The tower groaned. The cone atop began turning. Once the dirigible was in position, the huge engines lining its sides rumbled to life.
Horns blared throughout the fort.
Armed Flesh-Eaters spilled out of the concrete barracks behind the citadel. They formed into a single file as they streamed into the great archway in the tower’s base and ascended the stairway visible inside the metal skeleton. They soon crossed the gangway into the gondola.
As soon as the last soldier passed through, the gangway retracted. The dirigible’s engines roared. Its enormous propellers spinning rapidly, the airship separated from the tower and headed east.
He checked his watch. The boarding and launch took five minutes from the order being given. If there were no need for troops, it could have been under way even faster.
Grendel withdrew some dried fish from a bag in his pocket and flicked it into the air. Alrekr caught it in its fanged mouth and hooted appreciatively. Grendel watched the dirigible vanish into the distance and turned to Clark.
“My bankers will be glad to know how well you used their money.” Clark did not respond. Grendel frowned. Money was the sinews of war. Disdaining bankers was a fast road to defeat.
“The communications center is located below,” Clark finally said. Grendel nodded. Clark led the way down the crude concrete steps into the citadel. The temperature fell as sunlight gave way to kerosene lamps. Grendel was thankful for that at least. “The communications center is on the second floor below ground,” Clark continued, pointing to another stairway. “The Merrills don’t have much artillery, but it’s best to be safe.”
Before the party descended the second set of stairs, a young boy in Flesh-Eater colors rushed from below. The guardsmen’s repeaters rose. The ripper leaned forward, teeth bared. The boy abruptly halted. A telegram trembled in his hands. Clark worked his hand into the ripper’s collar to restrain it.
“Stand down,” Grendel ordered his own men.
The guardsmen lowered their weapons. “My lord,” the boy squeaked in Jasper’s direction. “A telegram from Fort Vallero.”
He handed the telegram to his towering master. Clark’s gaze swept across the page. His one dark eye grew wider and his gaze more intense.
Battle for the Wastelands Page 4
