Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (8 page)

He
sighed, closed the yellowed notebook Glass had given him and listened for a
moment to the distant howls from the Quad. Gregor spaced blows widely, allowing
the victim time between each to recover and reflect on the next. Still, he must
be nearly done, Creedy thought, starting down the hall, his mind returning to
his current situation.

As
comfortable as the Castle was - and it had been Creedy’s bolthole for a decade
- it was time to move. The Greens, moving from the East, had been
systematically exterminating larger bandit groups, raising garrisons and
generally interfering in the Darwinian struggle of the survivors that Creedy
depended on for his livelihood. Most annoying, they didn’t seem interested in
negotiations, and their reputation was bloody.

When
Creedy, then leading a band of twenty-seven, had found the abandoned training
center in the arid center of the desert scrubland of old Washington State, he’d
seen its potential. A complex with underground storage, miles of mostly intact
fencing and the huge concrete bulk of the Castle on its hilltop surveying the
surrounding countryside was exactly the sort of base required to allow the
shift from nomadic raider to local lordship. And it had worked, with the
application of a little force. Local farmers and ranchers from the Cascades to
the the old Idaho line would pay to be ‘protected’. And Creedy’s people, Castle
soldiers, had done that, if only to remove potential competitors at the top of
the food chain. If they’d raped and murdered when they were balked, well, it
was a small price to pay for peace, wasn’t it? Creedy had guaranteed that
irrigation projects went forward as needed, even if some of the labor had been
involuntary. Castle guards escorted and taxed caravans, making sure they made
it across the scablands to the coast, if with somewhat less cargo than they
started with. His lesser outposts numbered more than twenty, each garrisoned
with his men, while the Castle corps was nearly a hundred strong.

And
now the Greens came, with their Continental Defense Force nonsense. But they
were organized and had backing. Perhaps there really was a government, or an
attempt at forming one. Creedy didn’t care. What concerned him was that the
Greens had ammunition, horses, a few shielded machines that seemed to still
work, and disturbing things like newly-made canned rations. That meant
factories and civilization, and civilization didn’t sit well with Creedy or his
business.

It
was time to move, and north was the obvious route. If he was honest with
himself, part of him enjoyed the thought of starting over and escaping his role
as administrator. He’d earned his position in a hands-on way, and he missed the
immediacy of a raid; the screams, the blood, the amusing way people reacted
under the approach of the inevitable.

They
had a year or two, Creedy thought. If they weren’t established somewhere in
Canada by then, the band would be in trouble. There was little enough room to
go further west, and the south was a patchwork of dug-in cartels, cults, gangs
and warlords that would unite to kill any interloper quickly. It would have to
be the north. There he’d have the space and the time needed to explore future
plans.

Creedy
had reached the reception hall of the building, with its sandbagged windows and
trio of guards, when Gregor appeared at his side.

“Sir?
A moment?” Gregor asked. His face and arms were stippled with tiny droplets of
blood.

“Certainly,
Gregor.”

“Harris
has received the ordered punishment, Mr. Creedy. He’s unconscious now. I took
him to the infirmary, and the doctor says he should live. Also, Max told me
that the new staff are in the west wing, in the old classroom, and he’d
appreciate it if you could spare a minute to okay them. Any further orders for
me?”

“Go
inform Max that I’ll be there within the half-hour, then get cleaned up and
take some time off. I’ll see you in the morning, Gregor.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Creedy
watched Gregor depart. The factotum’s shoulders, swollen from obsessive
weightlifting, almost eclipsed his head, and his silhouetted form combined with
his shambling gait was trollish.

The
three watchmen on duty had stood to silent attention when Creedy had entered
the hall, and he took a few minutes to inspect their weapons and chat with each,
offering a few words with a perfect facsimile of interest.

 He
climbed to the second floor, smelling the stale fish oil from the lamps that
lit the corridors, and found Max waiting.

Creedy
used Max as a recruiter. The little man was glib and harmless looking, with
flyaway white hair and watery blue eyes. He smiled at Creedy and held the door
for him.

“Afternoon,
Mr. Creedy,” he said.

“Max.”
Creedy scanned the three women, one was old and two were younger. All looked
scared. The youngest, on the left, was the prettiest, with reddish hair and a
body the shapeless smock she wore couldn’t quite hide.

“What’s
your name?” Creedy asked her.

“Sam.
Samantha Jakes,” she responded, blinking. Her eyes were hazel, he noted. Max
coughed theatrically. “Sir,” she added, remembering.

“Miss
Jakes, can you write?”

“Yes,
sir, I can.”

Creedy
nodded. “Good. I think you’ll do. I need a girl for my office - someone to do
correspondence as needed, fix tea, perform whatever duties I require. Do you
have any questions?”

She
blinked several times. Creedy smiled.

“Well,
sir, what other duties? And for what pay?”

Creedy
gestured and Max escorted the other two from the room. They’d be taken to the
kitchens and shown to the dorms. When they’d left, Creedy closed the door and
moved to stand looking down at the girl.

“You’ll
be housed, fed, clothed far better than what you wear now. You’ll find that I
reward service with gifts as well.” He cocked his head to the side, watching
her hands as she knitted the fingers together tightly in her lap. “Do you
prefer straight answers, or romantic ones?”

“I
guess the truth’s the best way. Sir.”

“Good.
I expect you to do whatever I tell you for the next year; two at the outside.
Anything. If it’s to wear velvet dress and be on my arm for a headman’s meeting
in some dirtball town, or to mop my office floor, or to get down on your knees
and suck my cock in front of the assembled troops.”

She
paled, but kept eye contact. That surprised Creedy.

“If
you do just that - obey me - you’ll find your life will improve dramatically.
If you say you will, but decide not to - if something I ask of you seems too
much - I’ll beat you until you find it less objectionable. If that fails to
convince you, then I’ll probably give you to the troops as a fuck toy.”

“Well,”
the young woman said, voice trembling a little. “My gran told me that’s about
what I could expect. How long before you kill me?”

Creedy
laughed.

“I
don’t waste people. I understand my last girl, Dania, bought a saloon in
Wenatchee. I expected a lot from her, and I paid her for it when I tired of
her. Money is not an issue for me.” Creedy paused, staring at Jakes. “You
wanted it straight, there it is.”

“And
if I turn you down, right now?”

“You
go work in the kitchens for a two-year stretch like the other pair. You will
receive food and a cot and a piece of silver once a month. Keep this in mind:
If you say you’ll work for me, and you run, I’ll find you, bring you back and
kill you. Slowly.”

Creedy
clasped his hands behind his back and waited. Samantha bowed her head for a
moment before lifting her gaze to his waiting smile. Tears made her eyes shine.

“All
right, I’ll do it. For the money. For my own farm. For the money to buy some
papered stock, I’ll do whatever you want. Sir.”

Creedy
smiled. He reached out, ran a fingertip along the curve of her jaw. He felt her
flinch.
They always sell themselves
, he thought.

“Welcome
to our little family, then, Sam. Let me show you where you’ll sleep, and get
you out of that potato sack and into something more fitting.”

Outside,
the first flakes of snow swirled on the darkening air of November.

The
winter snows came hard and early, and by January the trade into and out of the
valley had dwindled to nothing. Locals kept some paths open, especially trails
between the larger clusters of houses, but outlying settlements had pulled
inside their walls and rarely ventured out. Winter was a season of preparation.
Clothing was sewn, leatherwork was done, shells reloaded, liquor bottled. A lot
of cards were played, a lot of dog-eared books re-read or swapped with
neighbors.

The
lake was too big to freeze in all but the bitterest years, but the coves and
protected bays did, and icefishing went on once enough ice had formed. Along
the open stretches, wind-borne spray built intricate blue ice sculptures over
the rocks of the shore and encased red-barked willows in crystal coats, melding
their branches into cages anchored to the earth.

Wildlife
still moved. While others rested, the trappers were at their busiest. Winter
brought the thickest fur and most valuable pelts. Muskrat, beaver, mink, marten
and bear were taken throughout the season. Grey spoke to many of the men and
women running the lines. They had seen no unusual activity, and the trappers
acted as his eyes throughout the snowy months, patrolling the valley and the
higher slopes, reading the tales the snow told.

In
early February, the coldest stretch just before spring’s first misleading
thaws, Grey called a second meeting. Doc attended; it was held at his cabin.
Maggie was bedridden with some bug, but Clay had ridden down, arriving on a bay
so covered with snow and frost it had looked white in the evening light. Big
Tom, Josie and Tillingford’s oldest son Henry arrived as the last light faded
aboard a creaking sledge pulled by two fuzzy-haired nags.

The
group ate dinner; beans and beef with carrots and canned tomatoes - greens were
long gone by February - and made small talk until Doc broke out a bottle of
amber-yellow bathtub bourbon.

“So
what’s the word?” Grey asked the room at large.

“Well,
I thought you’d tell us that,” Tom offered with a winning smile. Tom smiled at
everything, so Grey discounted it. Henry chuckled. The man had the Tillingford
height, but was another bony collection of whipcord muscle and teeth. He ate
like a fire, though, and Grey wondered absently if he had a tapeworm.

“There’s
not much to tell, yet. The trappers have seen no movement in the south. Nothing
unusual, anyway.”

“What’s
that mean - ‘nothing unusual’?” Clay asked.

“Just
local hunters and scavengers roaming around the ruins down the Mission side,”
Grey said. “A few more around the crater down south. They get hungry this time
of year. A lot die or move on. No sign of scouts, not that we expected any
during the snow. Hard to be sneaky when you leave boot prints.

“I’m
more interested in what you’ve all heard; what you’ve thought over the winter.
I see people but I don’t think I hear everything they have to say.”

Tom
cleared his throat.

“Here
it comes,” said Josie brightly. Tom shot her a poisonous look.

“There’s
been lots of discussion at the Port all winter long, Grey. People agree the
threat is real, but they’re not convinced we should ride out to meet it. There
have been some good suggestions, and I agree with many of them.” Tom paused but
Grey said nothing, hands folded around his glass of whiskey, eyes half-shut.
After the pause grew uncomfortable, Tom continued.

“The
Port is walled and has the advantage of the lakeside for supply, so a lot of
the merchants and fishermen have asked why we can’t defend it - bloody the
raiders’ noses and show them there are easier pickings elsewhere.” Tom paused
again. Grey looked at him a moment, took a sip, and settled again into
immobility.

“Damn
it, we don’t need to go out and get killed when we can pick them off from the
loopholes and make them leave. A hundred men couldn’t storm that wall with
thirty defending it, and we have almost twice that who are decent shots and
have weapons. Why wouldn’t that work? It would work.”

Grey
scratched in his beard, grown long for the winter. With the bulk of his fur
vest, he had a moth-eaten Santa Claus aura.

“Fuck
me blue, Tom, is there a question in there?” Grey asked. “If you’re here to
tell me what you’re going to do, then tell me, but don’t look for me to approve
of it when you haven’t thought it through.”

“We
have thought it through. We have the food and the safety and the guns. We can
hold them off as long as we need to and they will move on,” Tom said, his eyes
narrowing. “But you’re obviously saying I have it wrong, so can you enlighten
me?”

“See
there’s a question,” Grey said, finishing his drink. He slid the glass to Doc,
who refilled it. Clay had leaned back and was smirking. “You’re not wrong, you
just haven’t thought out all the repercussions. What’ll happen when your little
Alamo is too tough a nut?”