Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (23 page)

“That’s
good,” Grey said. “We’ll have to move as soon as we can. They’ll be coming.”

“He’ll
be out another few hours,” Doc said. “He shouldn’t move for a day or two.
You’ll tell me we can’t wait?”

“No.
I think they’ll come fast and hard on his trail. The fires would have puzzled
them for a while, but they’ll react quick to a shooting. That’s something they
know about.”

Doc
stood a moment, listening to the wind as it hissed across the grass. He held
out his hands, looked at his stained fingers, then dropped them to his sides
and returned his gaze to the bearded hunter.

“Why
are we doing this, Grey?”

“What
do you mean?”

“What’s
in this for you? What’s the payoff for all the death? If we can somehow stop
this Creedy from moving his guns to the Okanagan that’s all well and good - but
why are you doing it, really?”

Doc
waited, listening to the wind. It was a long time Grey answered.

“I
don’t know why. I think it may be because I’m like him. We’re the same, or used
to be. And it needs doing.”

“And
did it have to be you that did it?” Doc asked.

“I
don’t know.”

“Will
it make up for Harmon? Or Ronald?”

“I
don’t know.”

Doc
sighed. “You may want to figure that out. Soon.”

They
left as dawn broke. Ronald rode pale and silent, his left arm strapped across
his chest. Sowter rode beside him, watchful. Neither the burly camp cook nor
Clay had spoken with Grey after he had informed them of the impending arrival
of the army - and Creedy’s likelihood of moving within the next few weeks.
Georgia had been the only one who’d spoken.

“So
last night’s little disaster could have been avoided altogether?” She’d asked
with a bitter little grin. Grey had simply nodded. Why bother with the excuse?
‘
Who could have known?’
solved nothing and helped no one.

They
rode as hard as they could, but Ronald’s wound slowed them, and by noon he was
hunched over in the saddle, lost in a world of his own hurt. A faint red stain
bloomed on his bandaged arm as the wound seeped.

The
landscape changed as they travelled, with the last fields and outlying ranches
giving way to sandy hills capped with dark rock and little steep-sided valleys
choked with thorny brush. Early on, they saw a few people working in the
fields, distant specks accompanied by small flocks of birds, and kept well
away. For the last few hours they’d seen no one.

Grey
drew up and turned his horse to face the others.

“We
need to split up,” he said. “Someone needs to take Ronald back north, and word
that Creedy is coming, no more than two or three weeks behind.”

“I
can do it,” Ronald said, weaving as he sat.

“Maybe,”
Grey said. “But if you get a fever or have some other problem, word has to get
to Tom, and Tillingford, and the valley in general.”

“So
who goes?” Sowter asked.

“Doc,
Ronald and you,” Grey said. “Doc because we
might
need him, but we know
Ronald does for sure. You because someone out there knows you’re Simmons from
Potter’s Creek. Besides, you can make sure Doc and Ronald get there in one
piece.”

Doc
glowered at Grey.

“You
think the four of you are going to manage to stop an army?” He spat. “Give it
up, Grey. Come home with us. Make a stand with the Port.”

Grey
ignored him and stared hard at Sowter.

“I’m
depending on you. People have to be ready. Have Tom bring some folks to the old
hotel south of Summerland, the one that overlooks the highway. They can force
losses on anyone trying to get past, and that’ll mean fewer reach Tillingford’s
and the Port.”

Sowter
blinked at Grey, leaned over and spat.

“Do
you think Tom will listen?”

“Make
him. Tell him the bridge is his fallback,” Grey said. “He can hold that bridge
with six or eight riflemen as long as they have ammunition.”

Clay
had been silent most of the day and Grey swung round when he laughed.

“You’re
not expecting us to stop many of them, are you?” Clay asked, adjusting his hat.
Grey couldn’t see his eyes under the brim.

“I
quit expecting anything some time back,” Grey said. “I made a mistake. I thought
we had time, and we don’t. I thought we could control the where and when, and
we can’t. So we just have to do the best we can. Anyone else wants to go back,
this is the time.”

Clay
shook his head, eyes still hidden. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

“You
can’t ask people to go get killed, Grey. You can only tell them to.”

“Fuck
that,” Grey snapped. Clay raised his head. “It’s not true. I spent years doing
just that and it’s bullshit. I want people with me that want to do the job.” He
paused and drew a breath. “Harmon’s dead and I miss him. It’s hard. You want
the truth?”

Georgia
snorted. “You’re finally waking up?”

“Yes,
I guess I am,” Grey said, swinging to eye her. He talked fast, hammering over
interruptions. “I want Doc home because I think we have a better chance of
surviving without him. We’re faster without the mules, and much as I love him,
he’s getting old and slow. Ronald’s not going to be worth a shit with a broken
arm, and I need to make sure they get home, so I want Sowter to go - because
Clay and Mal are better with pistols and I want you and your goddamn German
rifle here to kill a couple dozen assholes. Now, if that doesn’t work for you,
fine, head home.”

Georgia
smiled sunnily. Grey squashed an urge to punch her.

“It’s
work getting you to lead, Grey,” she said. She cocked her head and gave him a
look he couldn’t read. “We don’t care what sort of baggage you have, we just
want to feel like you know what you’re doing.”

Grey
exhaled and straightened his toque.

“Right.
Then the next creek we cross, I want Sowter to take Doc and Ronald downstream,
then cut north after a mile or so. The rest of us are going to leave a trail
and head southeast for now. We’ll lead anyone who may follow away for a day,
then try to lose them before we head toward the Castle proper to pick up Creedy
when he moves out.”

Clay
shook himself like a big dog, removed his Stetson, dusted it off, and carefully
settled it onto his head again.

“Okay
then,” he said.

Doc
argued when the group reached a shallow stream, green with cress and fringed
with cattails as tall as the horses, but in the end he went with Ronald and
Sowter. The remaining four watched them depart, trailing the pack mules in a
staggered line that splashed through the brown water, kicking up cream-colored
foam.

“It’s
been a game so far,” Grey said to himself as the three disappeared into the
reeds.

“Playtime’s
over?” Mal asked.

“Playtime’s
over,” Grey agreed, cutting his horse around and kicking it into a canter.

The
physical damage to Mattawa was minor, Creedy decided. Someone had burnt one
strongpoint and tried for a second, killed three guards and lost one in the
attempt. Nothing.

The
psychological effects were more serious. Outlying garrisons were late with
reports, or not reporting at all. Troopers were milling about, commanders busy
making plans. His controlled exit on his own schedule was looking less likely.
While he might have bluffed through the approach of the CDF, having this
partisan activity on top of it was fracturing his control. Fear only kept
people in line until something else came along they feared more - or desired
more. Now they were scrambling, trying to consolidate their positions. He knew
it was just a matter of days before someone made a play for his position. It
wouldn’t matter that he intended to leave. They wouldn’t believe him in any
case.

It
was almost time to move, and worry about the details as they arose, but he had
another job to do first; not vital but potentially amusing. He asked Gregor to
meet him in the basement beneath the central wing.

Gregor
found his employer standing before one of the locked steel doors, peering at
the darkness beyond. A small oil lamp sat at his feet. The concrete hallway
here was lined with steel shelves painted gray. Boxes of printed material
filled them, as in the rooms beyond the locked doors. Many of the boxes sat
open, and papers and books lay in untidy piles. Troops had long ago given up on
finding anything of value in the sub-basement, but new arrivals always rooted
about before becoming bored.

Gregor
was the only person who spent any amount of time in the catacombs, picking
through the old books for interesting things to read.

The
aide stopped, his bulk exaggerated by the narrow hallway, and linked hands
behind the small of his back.

“Gregor,
these doors.” Creedy kicked the one before him, eliciting a dull thump. “I need
you to get the keys.”

“I
have them here, Mister Creedy,” the big man rumbled.

“Excellent.
What would I do without you, Gregor?” The aide retrieved a key ring from his
pocket and chose a key. The door opened smoothly and Gregor reached up, locking
the hydraulic arm to keep it from closing again.

Creedy
grunted and eyed the hallway, the debris and the drifts of paper and drab
rectangles of hardcovers, mostly green or brown, scattered haphazardly. He
hadn’t spent much time down here in years, but he had never forgotten what he’d
discovered, knowing its potential.

“If
we had more time, I’d see if there was anything else of use to us.” He pinched
the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as if warding off a
headache. “No matter. There’s a maze of halls down here and more than a dozen
of these locked rooms, yes?”

“Fourteen,
Mister Creedy.”

“How
many access points are there to the levels above?”

“Two
stairwells, and three elevator shafts,” Gregor answered without having to
think.

Creedy
nodded. The elevators were frozen in place on the ground floor and wouldn’t be
a factor for what he had in mind.

“I
think this room will serve my needs.” Creedy mused. “Get some men, bring down
one of the propane tanks - the big ones - and five or six cans of lamp oil. The
kerosene, not the fish oil, please. I’ll need wire as well, and the red box
from the armory.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips and he patted Gregor’s
shoulder. “I’d like to leave a little parting gift for whoever moves in after
us.”

“Anything
else, Mister Creedy?”

“Yes.
I need help moving a few cases from this particular room after you bring the
items. Then I’ll want two good lengths of heavy chain and a pair of padlocks.”

Gregor
nodded, turning on his heel, and moved away into the dark. Creedy listened to
his footsteps as he began to climb the nearby stairwell and then began to clear
away the trash stacked before the door.

He
hummed as he worked.

To
reach the ground floor from the subbasement under the Castle’s central block,
one first climbed a double flight of concrete steps edged in rusted steel. That
brought you to the basement level, with its armory, parking garages littered
with vandalized sedans and a few bulky six-wheeled armored vehicles long since
stripped of weapons. This area was now given over to the Castle horses, with
storerooms holding fodder and a penal brigade that shoveled the stables daily.
There were also dark, silent mechanical rooms filled with dusty ranks of heat
exchangers, junction boxes, gas lines, jumbles of shining HVAC ducting and
pumps, none of which had worked since the first impacts had melted the
computers that ran the systems. Time had welded many of the components into
immobility, and Creedy had never seen the need to try to restore any of the
systems. He had people, and people can fetch water, dig latrines and tend fires.
There were always a handful of guards posted in the basement, watching the
doors that closed off the ramps that led up to ground level. Another group was
posted at the locked doors of the armory, to which only Creedy and Gregor had
keys.

Up
another double flight of steps - both the basement and sub-basement had tall
ceilings - one reached the ground floor. Castle life was centered here, with
the huge meeting halls, kitchens, and honeycomb of old offices feeding or
housing most of the hundred-plus troops and dozens of Castle staff and
laborers.

Above,
all three wings of the building were lightly populated, with commanders
quarters, or boltholes where the men of the garrison kept stashes of liquor. A
trooper guarded the row of rooms where staff slept - Creedy had lost more than
one staffer to the appetites of troopers, which was wasteful. Dead servants
needed replacing, as did the trooper found responsible. Five years before, on
Gregor’s suggestion, Creedy had set up a row of suites, complete with its own guards,
that housed a rotating series of prostitutes, usually six women and one man.
The whores usually didn’t last more than a year before being rotated out for
fresh faces, but it helped keep the garrison quiet. If one died in some
particularly rough play, then the trooper in question would pay for the
replacement - or go to the post, if unable to.