Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  Let sleep come. What else is there to do here at the edge of civilization?

  Then the sound of galloping horses, dozens of them, drawing closer. Using the wall as a brace, Royster stood, his legs trembling.

  In the distance, Gordon Boudreaux rode hard for the wall, leading at least a hundred men and women wearing Crusade colors, some standing in the stirrups and raising their weapons.

  Praise the Most High! wailed Jerold Babb, his robes of office dirty at the knees, his face red and sweaty.

  Yes, thank you, Lord. Boudreaux and company halted in front of Royster, the smell of the animals’ sweat acrid and heavy. Royster smiled. Gordon has again proven himself a loyal and resourceful servant of the Crusade. Now we can complete the wall.

  It’s all I could find, Boudreaux said, dismounting. I count a hundred and twelve.

  Babb shuffled over and clapped Boudreaux on the back. Bless you, Gordon.

  Boudreaux glanced at him and said nothing.

  Royster held out his hand. I would embrace you if it weren’t for this wound. Instead, I give you the honor of procuring the wall’s final section, with my thanks.

  Boudreaux shook, his face as expressionless as ever. Then he turned to the troops. The first thirty of y’all, come with me. Give the others your guns. The rest of you, get on the wall and fire on that tree line. If so much as a squirrel sticks its head out, blow it off.

  Boudreaux’s thirty Crusaders gathered around him, the rest dismounting and tying their horses to whatever they could find. They climbed the ladders and crowded in beside the others, clustering around the fortified firing positions, slipping their barrels through the notches.

  When they were ready, one of them signaled to Boudreaux. Let’s go, the deputy lord said, spurring his horse.

  He rode through the gap. The others followed.

  I pray he is up to the task.

  From above, the apocalyptic sound of all those guns firing at once, over and over, the cacophony punctuated with short pauses for reloading.

  Don’t use all your ammunition, Royster called. Be sure of your target.

  He could not tell whether anyone heard him, but the effort took all his energy. The world swam out of focus. Sounds retreated into the distance. He slumped back down the wall, holding his wound and breathing hard. Babb sat beside him. Royster lay his head on the old minister’s shoulder.

  43

  Boudreaux led his riders to the segment and dismounted. Then he picked up a towrope and looped it around his horse’s chest, tying it off. Others did the same. The rest swatted their horses on the hindquarters, sending them back into the city, and waited near the rollers. Boudreaux and the riders urged their horses forward, the animals straining against the ropes and the chains and the weight, the enormous block moving perhaps a foot at a time. When it cleared a roller, the troops on foot heaved the log onto their shoulders and carried it to the front, where they pushed and pulled it under the ropes until it was positioned correctly. All of them watched the tree line, listened for shots, waited for the bullet that would cut them down.

  Sure enough, after they managed to drag the section ten feet or so, gunfire erupted from the forest. Many of the foot soldiers cried out and fell and lay writhing, wounded in their torsos and legs and heads. Those on the wall returned fire, shredding the leaves and limbs so the Troublers must have believed the very forest had turned against them.

  Boudreaux spotted Listerall on the wall and made a come on gesture. Listerall shouted to his guards. Some scampered down the ladders and, moments later, burst from the gap, running for the exposed rollers, humping them over the bodies of fallen comrades, placing them in front of the segment so the mounted troops could urge their straining horses forward again. The firefight continued, Crusaders falling every few feet, more coming off the wall and replacing them, the covering fire deafening. Everyone heaved and pulled until the wall could not have been more than five yards away, stretching in either direction farther than any eye could see. It would cut off New Orleans from the world for the first time since the great storm Katrina. It only broke for the levees at Lake Pontchartrain and the river, and Royster had confiscated all the boats, had mined the waterways themselves. He lacked the guards to keep people from trying to scale the wall, but most of the Troublers would not outrun the killing waters. Many would drown. Most of the others could be turned back from the high ground.

  Lord, save us. It’s really gonna happen.

  Then a great heaving cry from the woods. Boudreaux turned in his saddle. Troublers burst from hiding, riding for the gap in their hundreds, shooting at the wall, at Boudreaux’s troops, at the very sky in their ecstasy. A man the size of a tool shed led them, firing a shotgun one-handed. A handful of Crusaders fell bloody and lifeless around Boudreaux, while a volley from the wall took down a half dozen of the wild-eyed creatures bearing down on him.

  What do we do, sir? a guard asked.

  Pull, said Boudreaux. The man bent to his task, but then half his head disappeared. Blood and brain and skull spattered Boudreaux’s horse. Or die, I reckon. He turned his horse to face the sortie.

  Listerall appeared beside him, mounted, pistol in hand, square jaw set, eyes calm. Mister Royster wants you inside, he said.

  Bullets cut the air around them. He’s takin me outta the field. And I don’t care.

  Behind and above them, the firing intensified.

  44

  Bushrod watched Boudreaux take cover in the city. Aww. Just when it looked like Troy’s poor little baby might get himself shot. The wall segment rested only feet from the structure itself, and the Crusaders were redoubling their efforts with reinforcements. This Royster ain’t no tactician. He’s givin up the high ground and cover while a bigger force charges him. That’s what happens when you put a goddam bureaucrat in command. Bushrod turned his attention to the big man who had sent Boudreaux inside. Look at that square head. If you stuck him in that gap and nailed some boards to his noggin, you’d finish the wall a lot quicker.

  The reinforcements formed a skirmish line to protect the movers. Bushrod rode for the leader. Six or eight Troublers were shot from their horses, which, hemmed in, kept running forward. Fire shot through Bushrod’s left bicep. Blood flowed through a hole in his jerkin. Right through the meat. Y’all can’t aim for shit.

  The big Crusader drew his weapon and spurred forward.

  Bushrod shot him in the leg and shoulder.

  The Crusader fell off his horse and disappeared amid the charging Troublers as his mare smashed headlong into one of the riderless mounts to Bushrod’s left. Bushrod reined up as his troops rode into the enemy’s teeth, bullets thucking into flesh and shearing bone as men and women screamed and fell and clashed in single combat.

  Bushrod dismounted. He squinted against the gun smoke and dust as rounds hissed by. Those running drag passed him, waving blades and guns, screaming. Dead humans and dying horses lay everywhere, limbs broken or shot off, heads crushed.

  The big Crusader lay on his back in the flattened grass, his clothes tattered, his face a bloody mask. Bushrod approached and kicked his leg.

  The man’s eyes opened.

  He grabbed Bushrod’s ankles and yanked. Bushrod landed on his back, his head smacking the ground. Light exploded behind his eyelids. The Crusader rolled on top of him and sat on his chest and punched him in the mouth. A tooth broke. His lips split open. Blood filled his mouth. Another blow knocked his head sideways.

  All around them, his Troublers fought hand to hand, slashed, bit, gouged, the Crusaders giving as good as they got.

  One hell of a scrap.

  The leader punched him in the nose. More fireworks behind his eyelids, his nose a circle of numbness with fiery edges, pain radiating across his face and down his neck. His enemy grinned, teeth reddened and sharp.

  I’m Aaron Listerall, the man said. Glad to meet you. He punched Bushr
od’s injured arm. Bushrod roared. You’re the biggest Troubler I’ve seen in these parts. Maybe I’ll make a rug out of your hide.

  Whoopty shit, Bushrod said, bucking as hard as he could. Listerall overbalanced and slipped forward, nearly to Bushrod’s neck. As Listerall tried to keep his balance, Bushrod bit him in the crotch.

  Listerall screamed, his voice rising higher and higher, and punched Bushrod in the forehead, knocking him loose. The Crusader crawled away, searching for his sidearm with one hand, holding his privates with the other.

  Bushrod forced himself to stand, pulled his pistol, and shot Listerall in the back. The Crusader groaned and rolled over, hacking and choking.

  Bushrod stumbled over to him. Name’s Bushrod, he said. Sounds like you got somethin in your lung. Here, let me help.

  He shot Listerall in the throat.

  Listerall gargled and spat and crawfished. Then he lay still, his eyes open and staring.

  Bushrod shot one of them out, just for fun.

  Then he turned to the mobs near the wall, still locked in battle. He waded into them, shooting anyone he did not recognize.

  Minutes later, the Crusade’s ragged survivors ran for the city. No one relieved them. Up on the wall, the ranks had thinned, but they still fired into the Troublers.

  Bushrod fired into the air six times in quick succession, and his reserves ran from the woods, hauling bundles of weapons, ammunition, water, bandages from their hidden caches.

  On the wall, Crusaders shouted at each other to defend the gap.

  Bushrod grinned and turned to those around him. Charge, he said, and don’t stop shootin till they beg for mercy.

  He ran for the city, his people roaring as they followed.

  45

  When the Troublers raised their battle cry, Babb seemed ready to vomit or cry or both. The man is useless, Royster thought.

  Gordon, the envoy rasped. Perhaps you should help me up that ladder.

  Boudreaux looked old and broken down. You could almost hear him creak. I reckon so, he said.

  Royster’s bandages were nearly black. That whole side of his body felt both sticky and slick. His brain had grown too big for his skull.

  Boudreaux helped him to the ladder.

  Over at the gap, Crusaders saw them taking the high ground and disengaged, sprinting for the other ladders.

  Royster climbed, step by agonizing step, pulling with his good arm, Boudreaux pushing on his hindquarters from below.

  46

  One block from the lake, most of the Crusaders had garrisoned themselves inside houses and buildings. Some hid behind trees and hedges. Others hunkered on their knees in the open, guns shouldered.

  Long wiped sweat from her eyes. They still got all those people across the river and some at the wall. Given that probably eighty percent of our people are starvin and just outta their chains, this is gonna be close.

  Someone on the other side must have been noting the numbers. Long never heard the order to open fire, but the Crusaders’ initial volley struck somewhere upward of a hundred Troublers and freed people. They fell, leaking blood and spinal fluid and brains.

  Cover up! Cover up! Long shouted as she ducked into one of the old buildings, bullets thucking into the wood and brick, shrapnel spraying everywhere. Her Conspirators kicked in doors and smashed out windows and took positions inside, where they returned fire. If they had followed orders, those behind her would be seeking cover or waiting to relieve the front line, but with untrained troops, you never could tell.

  Many of the Crusaders who had been standing in the open were already dead. Some had run off, terrified. Long grabbed the nearest person, a ragged Troubler with a filthy beard and clothes that seemed to have been stitched from dishrags. Go find Hobbes and Stransky, she said. You know who I mean?

  The Troubler frowned. We’re all familiar with your officials. What else did we have to do while sitting in the streets and starving to death?

  Stransky wasn’t on the streets. She’s about as tall as you. Real skinny. Long, floppy dark hair. You’ll know her cause she’s got a big mouth and a lotta followers.

  The man glared at Long and spat. We’re fightin beside you because we hate those Crusade bastards, but we didn’t sign up to run errands for a bootlicker who kept us in chains.

  Long shook the man by his shoulders. We can blame each other later for a whole host of misdeeds. Right now, though, I can’t be in three places at once. You want to kill Crusaders? This is how to make that happen.

  He pulled free and looked about, seeming to consider the situation—the incoming fire, the structural integrity of the building, which seemed about to fall in. All right, he said. But I’m not doing it for you.

  Tell Hobbes to fan out to the east, Stransky to the west. Another pincer movement. We gotta engage em all at once. You got it?

  I’m not stupid, he said, running outside.

  Long hated to put their fates in the hands of a malcontent, but she had to do something. The Crusaders were outnumbered but entrenched and determined.

  Splittin our forces a third time’s like swimmin with a hungry gator. If you get away with it twice, you probably ought not to test God’s patience again. But it’s better than walkin this skirmish line and hopin.

  She grabbed two more Troublers, a man and a woman. To the man, she said, Run east and tell every officer you meet to be sure of their targets. If a stray shot sets off the explosives, we’re all dead. Then she turned to the woman. You run west and do the same. Go on now.

  She returned to her window and fired at the house across the thoroughfare. A Crusader bullet struck the wood to her left.

  47

  From their position at the storm wall’s central explosives cache, Ford and McClure had watched Crusaders ducking into buildings along the street. Now the kid sat against the concrete with a sniper rifle at her feet, her six-guns holstered.

  Ford knelt beside her, one hand covering his wound. They’re makin their stand, he said. Some of em will come for these caches directly.

  Bandit lay on his side, as peaceful as he would have been at McClure’s hearth. If she had a hearth. So what do we do? the girl asked. Sit here and pick em off as they come out, or assault em from the rear?

  Both. And hope LaShanda gives us some help. If she don’t, we’re like to get mighty wet.

  McClure nodded. She took her binoculars out of her poke. She swept them back and forth. Look to the east, she said, pointing.

  Someone had emerged from one of the buildings.

  Ford frowned and checked his wound. He saw nothing new. I wish we hadn’t had to let our horses go, he said. I can’t run fast enough to do no good.

  I got him, the girl said.

  I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do from here.

  Good luck, the kid said as she stood.

  Lord be with you.

  McClure left the rifle behind and ran east, Bandit pacing her. Ford turned away. Either the girl would prevail, or she would not. He had his own problems.

  He grabbed ten sticks of dynamite and made a bundle with a fuse long enough for perhaps a minute. The Conspirators were pressing the enemy hard, keeping them too busy to think, but any time now, more Crusaders were apt to get jumpy. He had to keep them thinking more about their lives than their orders. Hunkering low, he crossed the street and crept behind the nearest building, a long, low edifice of crumbling red brick. He stood next to a window. Inside, Crusaders shouted to each other and fired at the Conspirators to the south. Ford took a match from his poke and struck it against the brick. Then he lit the fuse. It burned quicker than he would have liked, but there was no help for that. As the guns roared again, a great cacophony of blood and murder, he smashed in the window and dropped the dynamite inside. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could.

  The Crusaders had covered all the explosives caches with tarps t
o protect them from the weather. Ford and McClure had already secured the tarp over the kegs of gunpowder and dynamite and plastique in the central cache, so he sprinted west. When the building exploded, a ball of fire shot into the sky and outward at least ten yards, shattering windows along the block. A second later, a fist of hot air struck Ford, taking his breath. He watched the caches, praying the tarps would keep any burning debris off the ordnance long enough for him to get back and put out the fire. Pieces of the building rained down, peppering the road with gnarled chunks of brick, splintered and burning wood, charred body parts. Ford dashed back to the central cache and threw a handful of burning boards off the tarp and over the storm wall.

  Fewer sticks next time. Hell and damnation, my ribs hurt.

  He pulled his sodden, sticky shirt away from the wound, wincing. He had no other bandage and would just have to fight with his rib exposed. Unless I drown in my own blood. He spat out a thick glob of gore and mucus. Then he pulled out his binoculars and scanned the next several tarps in both directions. No other fires on the caches. Thank you, Father God.

  A handful of Crusaders burst from the building next door, which had caught fire on its eastern side. They goggled, mouths open, guns holstered. I don’t wanna shoot if I can help it. Then everybody will know I’m here. In their shock, the Crusaders had not even registered Ford’s presence. He reached into the central cache and grabbed four sticks of dynamite. He lit them one at a time and waited until the first had burned most of the way down. Then he threw that first stick as hard as he could, his whole torso afire. The dynamite arced end over end and landed on the guards’ roof. He threw the other sticks, groaning. Two guards spotted him as he tossed the last one, their eyes widening as they raised their weapons. Just then, the first stick blew, obliterating much of the building and driving shrapnel through their bodies. They fell and lay still. The other sticks exploded soon after, and the building fell to pieces with several Crusaders still inside. One man lay writhing and screaming just outside the edifice. He had lost a leg, both arms, and much of his face. Another stumbled out of the building’s skeleton, engulfed in flame. Blast it. Ford shot the flaming man to keep him away from the caches. Then he shot the dismembered guard out of mercy.