Sitting opposite him, Hick sipped on his coffee, then looked the boy in the eye. "Listen, I'm goin' away. Was plannin' on headin' off tomorrow, but I figure it could wait one extra day if you wanted to come along. Now, I would understand if you said no. I guess you want to put your feet up … sorry, son."
Jay swallowed his coffee too fast as he tried to stop himself snorting it out. "It's okay. And no, I didn't plan on resting for long. It helps to keep moving. I was only gonna stay here for a week or two, then be on my way."
"Where?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. New York is home, but …"
"Well, in the meantime, I'm goin' to Salt Lake City. Want to come?"
Jay's eyes expanded. "Why are you goin' there?"
"To rescue a Mormon," Hick said, as if that explained everything.
#
"Why do you have to ruin everything? Elsa likes it here."
Sam sighed and went back to her work. They had one crate between them and it was surprising how many possessions they'd accumulated since they'd arrived in Zachariah's community. Some were handmade, but most had been brought with people when they arrived here, or from the occasional supply raids that Zak authorized.
"Don't ignore me, or I'll tell on you."
Sam was becoming sick and tired of Margie's joker, but she couldn't deny its power.
"I saw you, I did. You were with Jay in the fairy grove, then you went running off into the forest. I know what you were doing. You were making Zachariah's men think you were him. I saw you, and so did Elsa. So, that's two of us."
Sam dropped her backup pants into the box and looked at Margie. "Well, what do you want me to do about it? It's done now."
"You can go and talk to him. Tell him Jay wouldn't tell no one. He's prob'ly millions of miles away by now."
"Margie, I have talked with him. I've begged him. I know Jay, and there's no way he would give away our location, no matter what anyone did to him."
"Then why?"
Walking around the crate, Sam took Margie in her arms and held her tight. She understood why the girl was distraught. For the first time since Sam had met her on the East Coast, she felt safe, secure and happy. She grieved after her adoptive mother, Amanda, but she'd become a child of the community as a whole. And Zachariah himself clearly adored her.
But he believed that they couldn't stay there. Not while Jay was wandering around unaccounted for. If he told the wrong people where they were, then their only true safety—their invisibility—would evaporate. They had guards at all the approaching paths and trackways, but, like Aragorn's rangers, they couldn't hold back a determined attack.
So, they were moving. Lock, stock and barrel.
"Ah, I see you're nearly ready."
"Zachariah!" Margie yelled, breaking away from Sam and throwing her arms around the big man. With his fur jacket, white beard and hair tied back into a ponytail, he looked like an old Grizzly Adams.
"Look, Zak, is this really necessary?" Sam asked for the umpteenth time.
And, for the umpteenth time, he smiled sadly at her. "Yes, I'm afraid so. It was a pity Jay got away."
"Not for him, it wasn't," Sam said, bitterly.
"Yes, I understand your anger. But it was, after all, you who insisted he come into our community."
She slumped against the table. "I know, and I'm sorry. Will you tell us where we're going now?"
"I'm sorry, my dear. Any journey has its risks and the fewer people who know our exact destination, the better. It isn't far."
"And then we'll start building all over again?"
He shook his great shaggy head. "Not entirely from scratch, no. But we'll see when we get there."
"It seems such a pity to leave this beautiful place," Sam said, waving her arm.
"I intend to come back. Once the danger has passed. The longer we go without being discovered, the less likely it is that your … friend will betray us. We will keep watch on this place in the hope of returning, and we'll send back small groups to keep at least some of the crops from being entirely wasted."
"I'm so sorry, Zak. This is all my fault."
His mouth smiled, but not his eyes. "Yes, I'm afraid it is."
Chapter 18: The Farm
Jessie Summers strode out from the front door of the farmhouse, shotgun slung under one arm and the other wrapped around Dorothy as others rushed past her to take up position at the end of the short track to the road.
She'd been on tenterhooks since Gert had announced he was going into Hope to help Devon with the assassination plot. She'd been worried about it from the beginning, but it had seemed to her that every piece of news they had made it less likely that it would succeed. She knew Devon, once he'd made up his mind, would see it through and she was terrified he'd end up sacrificing himself in a vain attempt to succeed in a doomed mission.
Dorothy had been a blessing through all this, though Jessie tried to persuade herself that the child was nothing more than a burden. Having someone helpless and innocent to focus on had seen her through the times of deepest doubt. Even if Devon didn't make it, Jessie knew she had to survive for Dorothy's sake. And for the sake of the child growing in her belly.
She now had a noticeable bump, and her ribs had started aching from time to time. And, most aggravatingly of all, her swollen breasts were starting to leak a thin white fluid. Not for the first time, she wondered how women in developing countries coped. She guessed she was going to find out.
Jessie ran as quickly as her encumbrances would allow until she reached the farm gate. Four figures took cover, their rifles pointing at the grubby white SUV that had come to a halt twenty yards from the entrance.
Slowly, the driver's door opened. A little dog darted out and, evading the defenders, ran at Jessie. "Toto?"
The thin figure of a girl emerged from the car, hands held high.
"Jade?" Jessie called out. "Is it you?"
The girl looked beyond the rifle barrels before finding Jessie's face. "Oh, thank God. Jessie!"
She stepped forward, but one of the soldiers barked an order to halt.
"It's okay, Ricky. I know her."
"But we don't know who else is in the car."
"Then why not let her tell us!"
She could tell Ricky didn't like it—he didn't like anyone pointing out when he was being dumb as an ox, and especially not a woman—but he couldn't see an argument, so he gestured Jade to approach.
Jade threw herself at Jessie, and planted a kiss on Dorothy's head. "Where's Devon?" Jessie asked. Jade's face dropped. "He's not dead, is he?"
"No, not as far as I know. He stayed behind so we could get away. I didn't want to leave, but they insisted."
Jessie looked over Jade's shoulder at the car beyond. Nothing was moving within.
"Who are they?"
"Well, there's this lady called Lynda."
"Strickland?"
"Yeah."
"Who else?"
"Well, you gotta promise not to shoot first and ask questions after."
And just then, Marianna DeMille, in her camouflage uniform, emerged and raised her hands high.
"She's one of them!" one of the guards yelled.
Ricky looked across. "You give me one good reason why we shouldn't shoot her now."
Jade shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but Devon was trying to rescue them. And I figure that means we shouldn't just kill them."
"Who is the other? Not Mendoza?"
Jade's face tightened. "No, not him. But he is a leader. Called Scriver. I saw him speak when they all got together. He got shot, and then Mendoza tried to kill his own people."
Jessie tried to process this. "So, you're saying that Marianna was on our side all along? And this leader?"
"I dunno, Jess. I really don't. All I know is Devon thinks they should stay alive and I reckon we should respec' that."
Ricky stalked across to them. "And what if they gets away? They'll know where we are. They're gonna have to die at some point."
Scowling, Ricky shouldered his weapon and approached Marianna. He frisked her roughly, then looked inside as Lynda Strickland climbed out the other side.
"This one's in a bad way. Don't reckon we're gonna have to kill him, just let nature take its course."
Marianna, her hands still raised, was prodded forward by one of the guards. She glanced at Jessie as she passed. "Hello, Jessie. It's good to see you looking so well."
Jessie couldn't find any words to say. For all she knew, this was nothing more than a stay of execution. If neither Devon nor Gert returned soon, she would find it impossible to resist calls for their execution, even if the man survived the next few hours, which looked unlikely. If Devon didn't return at all, then it would largely be Marianna's fault and Jessie doubted she'd be able to find it in herself to forgive or protect her in that case.
"This place is lit!" Jade said, accepting Dorothy as they watched two guards haul a groaning Scriver toward the house.
"Hello, Jessie," Lynda said. She looked as though she was at the uttermost end of her tether, black rings framing her eyes and white frosting through her hair.
"Come inside, both of you," she said. Then she called to the guards, "Take him into the kitchen."
Jessie led the other two through the front door and got to the kitchen ahead of the guards. "Here, help me clear this." There were two older women and a man in there and, between them, they moved everything from the table, and one took an old blanket to spread on the wood.
"Anyone have experience sewing wounds?" she asked. "No? What a surprise. Mary, go fetch the sewing kit. Joe, will you bring in the toolbox, please, and sterilize the radio pliers?"
The man looked puzzled. "How am I gonna do that, Jessie?"
"Well, clean them first, then either put them in the stove or boil some water."
With a nod, he shuffled off.
"Seems to me you're running this place, Jessie," Lynda said. "I should have guessed, I suppose. You are your father's daughter, after all. I miss him, you know."
She didn't have time for this. "Thanks, Lynda. But it seems I've got to play medic, so unless you're going to help, I'd appreciate some space. Would you take Dorothy with you?"
"I'll help," Jade said as Strickland slunk off. "I don't care about blood and stuff."
Jessie regarded her for a moment as Scriver was lifted onto the table, then shrugged. "Sure."
She moved her attention to the man on the table. "Can you tell me your name?" she said, mainly because it was what every good medic asked on TV.
The man didn't respond, except to mumble incoherently.
"His name's Scriver," Jade said.
"I know! I was checking whether he was conscious."
"Oh."
"Because the next few minutes are going to be a whole lot easier if he isn't."
Dried blood caked Scriver's black business suit, so she, Jade and the guard pulled the jacket off to expose his shirt, which was entirely scarlet and burgundy beneath his arm socket. "Good God, he's lost a lot of blood. Mary, how's the water coming?"
"It's gonna be a few minutes, but I got some we boiled earlier if you wanna use that."
Jessie had insisted all water that came up from the well be boiled if it was going to be drunk, mainly for Dorothy's benefit, but her foresight was paying off now.
She ripped Scriver's shirt open and dipped a bleached cloth into the water, before wiping the wound. It was still seeping blood and, when she rolled him a little, she could see a matching red stain on his back. "It's gone straight through. I guess the bullet smashed his shoulder blade, but at least we won't have to dig around to get it out."
Mary arrived with the first pitcher of boiling water and a handful of sterilized rags. "What about his lungs? Ribs?"
"I don't know. I can't see any sign of severe bleeding, but it might all be internal. I'm going to deal with what I can see." She took some of the hot rags and used them to dab the puncture wound before dipping some smaller rags in some of their small stock of antiseptic.
It looked as though the bullet hadn't hit squarely; it was as if Scriver had leaned forward at the moment of impact so the round went through high on his left side and came out a few inches farther down his back. "Jade, I need you to hold the edges of the wound together while I sew."
To Jessie's surprise, the young girl merely shrugged, cleaned her hands in the kitchen bowl and pressed the ragged skin together. It wasn't a huge wound—a couple of inches across at the most—but she had to pull very tight so Jessie had a healthy edge to sew through.
"This is sick," Jade whispered as she watched Jessie work. "You ever work in a hospital?"
"I've only ever darned the odd sock before, and then only when I was a lot younger. If only the Jessie of a year ago could see me now."
Mary handed her another rag as fresh blood leaked through the remaining hole. "And you're going to be a mother soon enough. One of your own, I mean."
For some reason, Jessie felt a jolt of anger at what Mary had said, even though she knew the older woman meant nothing by it. She guessed she'd cared for Dorothy long enough to think of the child as her own. Yep, if she'd had a crystal ball back then, she wouldn't have recognized herself.
Throughout, Scriver remained insensible, but he groaned as the three of them gently rolled him over. "We need get him into a shoulder sling," she said, "and I don't want to have to move him, but that wound on his back has to be sealed up." In the end, she was able to clean the small exit hole with water, then antiseptic, before sewing it up as Jade held the edges together.
"Ah!" Scriver's eyes flicked open as they rolled him onto his back again.
Jessie cursed under her breath. "Joe! Come help us keep him still. Mary, have you got the strap ready?"
"I sure have. It's an old sheet I folded over. And I found a couple of safety pins."
With Joe's help, Jessie and Jade lifted Scriver from the waist while Mary slid the sheet onto the table, then they lowered him, fighting against his increasingly energetic moaning. "Hold still, for heaven's sake!"
He howled as they pulled the sheet tight, immobilizing his left arm against his side, and fastening under his right arm. "Mary, go fetch some liquor from the living room."
Scriver was now groaning in obvious agony. He was trying to keep himself still by willpower, but despite that he writhed, unable to get away from the pain.
"Here, have some of this," Jessie said, handing him a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Scriver's eyes lit up and he took it in his left hand, downing so much that he choked on it.
"That's enough," Jessie said. "After all the effort we've gone to, I don't want to lose you to alcohol poisoning."
"Oh, I can handle it," Scriver responded, the first coherent words Jessie had heard him speak. "Drink and I are old buddies. My God, that hurts. But, thank you. Whoever you are."
"I did what I had to do, but I don't know if you'll make it. You lost a load of blood and I can't tell if there's internal damage."
Scriver's head rolled toward her and she could see his eyes going in and out of focus. "But you tried. Thank you. Perhaps, when I am a little recovered, you will tell me who you are and where I am. But … I need … to … sleep."
They carried Scriver up to the storeroom next to the one that Jessie and Dorothy shared. Old Joe, aided by one of the younger men, made a bed against the window out of a couple pallets with a bundle of blankets for a mattress. Ricky posted a guard after bellyaching about how they couldn't spare anyone to watch a dead man walking.
Finally, once the table was cleaned of blood, they were able to make a simple dinner and the farm's population filed into the kitchen to take their soup and bread. Mary, it turned out, was a genius at making food from minimum ingredients, but her superpower was bread-making. Jessie hadn't appreciated how much she'd missed it until she'd first bit into a slice of the brown, grain-filled
loaf.
Jade followed Jessie into the late afternoon sunshine, a bowl of stew in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other. She leaned against a rusting tractor that had been left to rot in the corner of a pen, enjoying the warmth coming off metal baked in the sun all day.
"What did they grow here?"
Jessie looked around as if surprised to find Jade there. Her mind had been flitting between imagining where Devon might be and wondering whether Scriver was still alive. "What? Oh. Cattle, we think. Some sort of livestock, anyway. We've got half a dozen cows in the field over there—Hick rounded them up. Reckons he's a cow whisperer, if you ask me. We need a bull, really, so they keep the milk flowing. Don't ask me," she said as Jade raised her eyebrows. "I'm a city girl. None of this comes naturally."
"Maybe I can help," Lynda said, as she carried a dozing Dorothy toward them. "I grew up on a farm. I'd like to be useful if I can."
Jessie smiled at her. "That'd be awesome. Everyone asks me, for some reason, and half the time I'm guessing."
"You've done pretty well. How many have you got here? People, that is."
"Eighteen, all told. Only nine or ten are good as fighters, though. Five are too old, including Mary and Joe. Apart from Dorothy, we've got four kids. And there's me. Of course, that's not counting you and Jade."
"What are you going to do with Marianna?"
Jessie sighed, gazing over at the main farmhouse. It was a two-story red brick building with a shallow slate roof that they'd patched since arriving. Marianna was on the top floor, under guard. "I don't have a clue. I thought I knew her, you see. The Marianna we left on the East Coast was innocent and naive, and pretty pious to be honest. And then we discover her not only working for the Sons of Solomon, but in a senior position. At first, I thought she might have been this Mendoza's lover …"
"That's a bit sexist," Jade said, before slapping her hand over her mouth. "Sorry."
Jessie shrugged. "You're right. She's a pretty blonde and, having been one myself once, I ought to know better. No one ever credited me with anything I achieved. Except Dad. And Devon.
Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5) Page 13
