James Robert Smith, page 22
“What about the marks we found on the one we took out on the city limits? Anything like that?”
“Yes,” he’d told them. “These appear to have been herded up here. But I haven’t seen any dogs, and I haven’t seen any people around who might be commanding dogs to do this.”
“Keep looking,” came the reply, and they’d signed off.
After that, Stockman had moved on, and the only times he’d found the need to use the handheld short wave was to check in to make sure he could still reach Sparta. The exchanges had been painfully brief and curt. Although he knew better, he couldn’t help but feel that whomever was manning the receiver would have been glad to be rid of him forever. Of course, considering what others were saying about him, he couldn’t blame them. It was up to him now to prove himself and to prove those rumors to be lies.
As he’d moved across the ridges leading toward where the Council had determined Harvest to be, he had time to muse on what had happened. In the weeks since he’d been voted out, and all but shunned, he had taken to the bottle. Or the jug, rather. Stockman had spent many days in a drunken stupor, or stoned out of his gourd partaking of Widow Hawkins’ excellent reefer. She, at least, seemed to have had some pity for him and had gifted him with about a quarter pound of her quality weed. For days he had sat on his front porch, puffing away, living in a pungent cloud of marijuana smoke. Passersby had hardly acknowledged him.
Since then, though, he’d done his best to dry himself out. He’d had to, after the attempted murder of Warner. Someone had taken a shot at her, fortunately only a near miss. The gun used, of course, had been the same caliber as his 30.06. Everyone figured he’d done it, and only because he’d been so terribly drunk for most of the time had convinced Dr. Wein that he’d likely have been unable to shoot straight enough to have so much as hit Warner’s house from where they’d determined the shot to have come, much less to within an inch of her head. Even she was loathe to believe that Stockman had tried to kill her, but she wasn’t willing to take him into her embrace, either.
He had become untrustworthy in the eyes of most.
“You’ve all done questionable things since The Event,” he’d screamed at them, as if he’d been on trial rather than merely being interrogated mainly by folk he’d thought of as friends. “If the truth be told, most of you are probably murdering assholes! That’s how most of you made it up here!” He’d raged and screamed at them all, finally ending his tirade by puking up half a liter of partially digested scuppernong wine. And then passing out from exhaustion and, indeed, pure frustration.
Unable to prove who’d taken that single shot at Warner, his name had been stricken off the suspect list. Unfortunately, that suspect list had numbered exactly one. Soon after that, Wein had come to Stockman’s house to tell him. “She doesn’t think you did it, either. So don’t feel that she does. We had to look into it. You’d have done the same thing if you were in our position.”
By that time, Stockman had gotten himself sober. He’d even taken the unused weed back to the Widow Hawkins and returned it. “Give this to someone who needs it more than I do,” he’d told her. “I need to think straight for a while.”
Wein had done Stockman the honor of sitting on the ex-colonel’s front porch, too. Sitting there with him as in earlier days, in view of everyone who walked past. He’d have to thank Wein for that gesture someday. “What the hell can I do to set things straight?” he’d asked Dr. Wein.
“Well, you could just let things run their course. Some shit is definitely going on with City of Ruth. They’re going to attack us. It’s a foregone conclusion. Even you have to admit that, now.”
“Yes,” Stockman had said. “I didn’t want to believe that people would still shoot at one another. Not after The Event. Not after Payback. It’s insane to consider that.”
“No one ever accused the human race of being sane.”
“I thought things would be different, now.”
“I doubt things will ever be different,” Wein had replied, with some sadness.
The cool wind was blowing with a little more impetus that day, hinting at the winter to come, and the skies were filled with dark clouds sailing against the ruddy background produced by a fading sun. “Well, I figured whoever was left would be doing what we’re doing.”
“And what’s that?”
“No harm.” Stockman had smiled on uttering that. “That’s a damned good code to live by, you know. Do no harm. Shit. It’s sublime. How’d we come up with such a great thing?”
“We were tired, dude.” Wein had smiled back, through his dark beard. “It’s easy to be kind when you’re so tired you don’t have time for bitterness.”
“But it’s likely not to be,” Stockman had grudgingly admitted.
“Not after what happened. Not after the posters, and that attempted assassination.”
“Who did that?”
“They have a mole here. We’re convinced of it. There’s really no other explanation.”
“No, I suppose not.”
They sat, rocked, listened to the wind, heard bluegrass music coming from a nearby house, the sound of babies crying—newborns, more and more of them every week.
“I think there’s something you can do to get your status back here in Sparta,” Wein suggested, quietly, reluctantly.
“What is it?” Stockman had not hesitated. He was willing to do almost anything.
“We need someone to scout down to Harvest. Where the three refugees came in from.”
“Where is it?” Stockman had asked.
“Well, we’re not entirely sure. The woman isn’t that clear and she and the kids wandered for about two weeks before we found them. It could be just about anywhere, but we think we have a rough approximation.”
“How rough an approximation?”
“Well, you know the so-called commandments that were tendered to us by City of Ruth? The one they really care about is the roads. They want the roads open. Not for commerce, like they say, but for access.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a no-brainer.”
“Well, Harvest has tried to keep their section of the road between them and City of Ruth open. Ellen—that’s the woman we found at the fire lookout—she says that she’s been told that City of Ruth is about fifteen miles down the road from Harvest. From what she says, it’s mainly downhill. So we got some maps out and figured about where Harvest should be. But we’re not positive. It would only be a neighborhood…we can’t even pin down an exact township, but that’s why we need someone to scout. Alone. To keep from being too conspicuous.”
“I’ll do it,” Stockman had said. He was sick of being the odd man out.
It Had to be Done:
Mister Leeds went out of the church. The women and the youth were all assembled there. They were happy, and to see those faces filled with smiles and the space with chatter made Leeds happy, too. As he retreated from the scene, he looked down into the sunken alcove where the tables had been set with so much plenty. The women and children were so busy with their meals that not a one of them turned to see him leave their presence.
But he did not go far. He opened a small door beneath the stadium seats and was standing there in darkness. Even through the barrier of wood and iron and plastic he could hear the cheerful voices along the tables. Taking the small flashlight from his pocket, he switched it on. Nothing moved in the spaces, and only scant light from above filtered in through the chinks and cracks in the stairs and façade of seating around him. He noticed that the concrete floor was slightly damp—the seal was not holding. Shoddy work, he saw. But there would be no fixing it now. At least not by him. Not by member of Harvest community.
The slim yellow beam swept the dark spaces until he saw what he wanted.
Leeds went to the stack of metal cylinders and stood for a moment, thinking. After a while, he whispered.
“Let the enemy persecute my soul, and take it; yea, let him tread down my life upon the earth, and lay mine honor in the dust.” He quoted in a silent rasp and there was no one to hear him but God. He took the mask from his jacket and pulled it tight around his head. His clothing hung on him so that no one had noted that he’d been carrying anything at all beneath. It clung to dry skin of his face, but he cinched it even tighter. The goggles were large and he’d cleaned them well with a cloth shortly before. So his vision was quite good.
He stood and considered the things stacked before him. As soon as Brother Jackson had left with the last one hundred of their most able-bodied men, the minister had instructed these to be moved to this spot, under the vast seating in the church building. The youth who’d been left with him had no suspicions. They merely followed orders cheerfully, and if they had any questions at all, they kept them inside. This was the only way.
Going to the first cylinder, he opened the valve with his left hand. There was a slight hiss as the CO2 began to vent.
“The wicked in his pride doth persecute the poor: let them be taken in the devices that they have imagined.” His words were all but covered in the hiss of gas from the opened nozzle. He knelt and opened the next.
“My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.” The noise from the escaping gas grew a bit, but he knew that no one on the other side of the bleachers would be able to hear the strange hissing sound.
“Let their way be dark and slippery: and let the angel of the LORD persecute them,” he muttered, a bit louder, as he went from tank to tank, until all twenty of them were open and singing away while the women and children feasted in happy ignorance on the far side of that wall. “So persecute them with thy tempest, and make them afraid with thy storm.” He walked back toward the small doorway through which he’d entered and stopped to crawl out. At his back, the score of yellow tanks were spilling their deadly cargo.
As he came out into the open hallway, he turned to lock the access door, placing the small key in his pocket. He was certain that no one who knew of the gas tanks would arrive in time to halt his plans, but he needed to be sure. Going to a rear stair access, he climbed it and went to the highest tier of seats and emerged at the top of the church sanctuary and looked down.
“Let them be confounded that persecute me, but let not me be confounded: let them be dismayed, but let not me be dismayed: bring upon them the day of evil, and destroy them with double destruction.” The mask muffled his voice, but he knew that God could hear him. And He knew the meaning of these words, how well they fit the situation.
Below him, down at the foot of the sanctuary, the people were already lying on the floor and slumped across the tables. Some struggled a bit. A few of the older women, who’d been sitting a few rows up, had run down to help the first few who had fallen. And, stooping to help, they’d also succumbed to the gas that pooled there where all had gone to feast.
Within minutes, no one at all moved. There were, he knew, over six hundred dead below him. He’d done a terrible thing. But it had to be done. God’s will had to be done.
And anyway, soon these bodies would move again. They would have a new purpose. He’d see to that.
Just before he stepped out into the clean, cool air, he paused to peel the mask from his face. There would be, he knew, at least a couple of young guards making their rounds. He did not want them to see the mask. As he opened the door and went outside, he indeed came upon just such a person.
“Minister Leeds,” the boy said.
“Brother Wallace,” Leeds greeted him with a smile. He was a good boy, Leeds knew. Very eager to help out, but not terribly bright. “I hope that you’re doing well today.”
“Yes, sir. Very good. We had a great meal at barracks this morning. The cooks did a fine job.” Leeds could feel the boy’s eyes on him, and he realized that the mask had made deep impressions on his starved face. But the youth was too cowed to mention them.
Almost ready to push on, he paused, thinking better. “Do me a favor young man.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Why don’t you go into the sanctuary and have yourself a bite. The ladies have cake, you know.”
“Cake?”
“Yes,” he said. “They made it for the little ones, but I’m certain there’s some left. Why don’t you go in and have a piece?”
“But my rounds.” The boy looked over his shoulder, looking for his immediate superior.
“I’ll tell them that I said it was okay.” He smiled again. “And, anyway, I think the ladies would enjoy just a little male company right now.”
“Okay,” Wallace said. His teenaged face was bright.
Leeds opened the door for him. “Run along now. Hurry up before the cake’s all gone.”
As the boy hurried past him and vanished down the dim light of the hallway, sadness overtook the minister. It was best, he knew. The end that was prepared for the others would not do for one so young and unblemished.
He pushed on. Now, there were only the eleven men at arms who remained within the gates of Harvest.
***
The ringing of the bell in the central square brought all of the men running. He looked with sadness upon them. They were a rag-tag lot. The clothes on their gaunt bodies were worn and faded. Their weapons were what they’d been able to scrounge in the vicinity. He knew that some of the fellows were down to less than five or six rounds for whatever firearm they carried.
Their leader, Brother Hickock was in the lead. He’d been posted as a lieutenant with most of the men-at-arms on their one-way mission toward Ruth. He came trotting up, his red hair falling down in his eyes, winded from the long trot from the eastern to the western side of the compound. The dozen boys and men gathered at the flagpole that stood less than one hundred feet from the main gates.
From his vantage point in the tower of the lesser of the two churches, Leeds stared intently at all of his remaining men. Each of them was breathing hard from the effort of sprinting from wherever they’d been posted around Harvest. They were good men, and he would miss them all, terribly. He sighted down at them with the powerful scope of the rifle in his hard hands. It would be so easy to shoot each of them down where they stood.
But of course that’s not what he was going to do. There was too much left to chance that way. Some of them would inevitably avoid the fire; they’d scatter. If nothing else, they were well trained. He peered through the lens at Hickock, the cross hairs centered on the sweaty locks hanging down on his forehead. His finger twitched slightly on the trigger, but he aimed the gun lower, until he’d sighted in on his target:
The canister of chlorine gas was sitting at the base of the flagpole, plain as day. When he’d placed it there that morning, he’d thought of concealing it, but had decided not to do that. By just putting it there, in open view, he thought it would seem less threatening, less out of place. He recalled when the tank had been hauled back to Harvest. His men had told him that it could be of some use—perhaps it could even be weaponized, if needed.
Well, it was certainly going to be a weapon. One, obliquely, of retribution.
Minister Leeds aimed at the center of the canister and waited for a few more seconds as the haggard men assembled closely at the flagpole. He fired.
Below, the tank ruptured cleanly and there was a brief explosion. The men closest to the container fell immediately to the earth as a huge cloud of green gas expanded, taking in the little group who had come as they’d been ordered.
Leeds did not avert his eyes. Some of the men died immediately, but four of them struggled and died in an agony that took long minutes. Some time passed before they’d stopped fighting, their burned lungs giving up one last burst of fluid and dead air. Only then, wearing his gas mask, did Minister Leeds walk soundlessly down from the tower, padding over carpeted stairs, his steps muffled in the quiet spaces of the church building. He had just a few things left to do. He had a call to make on that damned radio Deacon Sim had given him.
And there was a door that needed opening.
Betrayal:
At first, Deacon Lashmett and everyone else had thought that it must be some kind of effort at misdirection. He doubted the veracity of what he was hearing as he’d been assembling his forces to head into Harvest.
“Are you sure that it was Minister Leeds? It was his voice on the short-wave?”
“Deacon Sim says that it was, sir. He verified it himself.”
He’d looked down at his maps as the gates were opened. There had been a few shots fired to take out several of the walkers. Over the past days, more and more of the things had been spotted, along with increasing numbers of deer. One of the other deacons had even entertained the idea that the deer and zombies were running from something. But he’d ridiculed that thought and it had vanished back into the null from whence it had come.
“Leeds said that the commander of his forces had mutinied. Minister Leeds insists that this man—Brother Jackson, he calls him—is on his way here with a force of a little more than one hundred armed men. They mean to attack us. He says that they may already have maneuvered onto the low hill to the east, in the trees up there.” He pointed to the rise of land about a half mile to the east. “Leeds claims that they’re going to form a skirmish line and have at our column as we drive down the road.”
Lashmett had considered his maps and his plans as he spoke by radio with both Preacher Chase and Deacon Sim. He’d made certain to that Sgt. Nalley added his soldier’s voice in support of Lashmett’s tactics. The Preacher and Deacon Sim had agreed.
