Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (4 page)

She suspected she would be free soon. She was preparing the other contingencies in her mind when she felt another drop of blood run from her nose. It was an ill omen. Her strength had ebbed of late, and she had lost even more weight. Only when she noticed the swaying lamp near the stairs had grown blurry did she face the fact that she was dying.

Pastor called after Robinson as he sped across the field, but either he hadn’t heard his call, or he disregarded it completely. The brother and sister mutes rushed up with bows in hand, the question implicit in their stances.

“Yes, dammit!” he cursed. “Go. Both of you, help him!”

In an instant, they were off.

As the house fire raged, three Bone Flayers stood outside the conflagration, trying to coax their targets to step from the porch. Smoke was already billowing out of the windows, pushing them forward. But in their thirst for blood the Flayers never saw the shadow speed in from behind, nor the axe that cleaved the first savage’s head in two.

The second and third Flayer whirled, but arrows struck them in the chest and throat, and they dropped to the dirt.

At that very moment, a fourth Bone Flayer rounded the house, this one identifiable by a black hand painted on his face. Robinson assumed it marked him as someone of rank. The savage let out a war cry and charged, throwing a spear that missed Robinson by inches.

In the next instant, a knife was in the savage’s hand, but Robinson’s axes swung with speed and precision that quickly had Black Hand on his heels. Then an arrow found Black Hand’s leg, and he fell to the ground.

As the farmers stepped out from under the burning eaves, a few moved in the downed man’s direction.

“Don’t kill him!” Robinson cried.

Seconds later, more families flooded out of the house, one of them yelling, “There are more coming up the street!”

Robinson scanned the area. He knew they’d never make it back across the field, so he nodded toward the barn.

“In there!” he yelled.

The farmers and their families were halfway across the yard when a dozen more arrived. Several shot arrows. One woman was clipped in the shoulder and her children wailed. The woman’s husband pulled her by the arm as Robinson picked up the smallest of her children and carried her toward the barn.

Behind him, one of the Flayers let out a reverberating whistle—a signal Robinson took to mean more reinforcements were on the way. He glanced back to see Black Hand being helped to his feet. He cursed himself for not killing the man when he had the chance.

The barn was a rusty, old structure, possibly left over from the days before the Great Rendering, but it had undergone many repairs and had held its form well. The good news was that its exterior was mostly corrugated metal with a gambrel roof that would be difficult to set afire. The bad news was that once they stepped inside, the flayers were sure to trap them inside.

The interior of the barn had stalls for horses and pigs. Across the floor were all manners of handcrafted plows and machines that looked to do seeding, planting, and tilling. Ladders on both ends led to small lofts, likely where feed was once kept, but each nocked up against bay doors that opened to the outside.

Robinson ran to the opposite end of the barn to look out the rear doors. A road ran alongside a small creek opposite another empty field. The Flayers hadn’t circled the barn yet, but it was only a matter of time. He closed the doors and turned back to the mutes.

“Get up in that loft and open those doors,” he told them. “With the sun at your back, you should be able to pick off a few Flayers without presenting too much of a target.”

As they scaled the ladders, Robinson turned to the families. They were dressed uniformly, mostly in black. The men wore trousers and starched shirts, buttoned to the top. A few wore vests, and all wore wide-brimmed, black hats. The older men had beards with no mustaches. The women wore black dresses that dropped to the ground and white lace cloths that covered most of their hair.

“Which of you knows how to fight?” Robinson asked.

No one raised a hand. Robinson almost groaned but knew it would do no good.

“Which of you can fight?” he asked.

This time, several of the men raised their hands, along with one woman, though none held conventional weapons, merely farming tools.

“We are willing,” the tallest figure said. “If you tell us what to do.”

The man’s clothes were singed, but he looked hale. A second man, who appeared to be his brother, stood next to him.

“You two, come up front with me,” Robinson said. “The rest of you guard the back door. Try to block it with anything you can. If you need help, call out.”

As they hustled off, Robinson locked eyes with a teenage girl. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but something about her froze him in his tracks. And then it hit him. With her light hair and green eyes, she was the spitting image of Tessa.

“What do you want us to do?” a silver-haired farmer at Robinson’s elbow repeated.

“Find anything that will make a weapon. The longer the better.”

At the front of the barn, the mutes had opened the loft doors and were alternating arrow fire. Robinson heard a cry, followed by a call, followed by more cries. He fought the instinct to laugh because he knew the mutes were using a wounded man as bait.

“You!” Robinson called out as another farmer passed. “We saw other farms as we approached. How many of you are there?”

“Twenty-six families we numbered,” the man said grimly. “But after the first attack, most of the able-bodied men formed a party and left for the river. They still have not returned.”

“That’s because they’re dead,” Robinson said.

The man’s head sank, but he seemed to know it was true.

“Make no mistake,” Robinson continued, “these are incredibly skilled savages you’re up against, and they won’t quit or retreat until the rest of you are dead too. But you have one thing going for you. Do you know what that is? This is your home. And it’s hard to flush an animal from its home. If you value the lives of your family, fight. Fight until there’s nothing left.”

“That we will,” the man said defiantly.

A whistle drew Robinson’s eyes upward. The sister mute signaled six to the right. Four to the left. Ten working around to the backside.

Too many
, Robinson thought.

He ran to the front, where the biggest farmers waited.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” one of them asked.

“They will,” Robinson answered. “Caution isn’t the Bone Flayer way. Most likely they’re waiting for the rest of their party to arrive. Or maybe they’re trying to find some cover to aid their approach. If they can’t decide on a plan in time, they’ll simply charge.”

At the far end of the barn, something struck the metal doors. The villagers had managed to secure them with an old chain but were struggling to hold it closed.

Robinson raced back to join them.

“How many outside?” Robinson asked.

“Four or five,” a large woman answered. She held a scythe in her hands, its blade marked with blood. Despite the situation, her voice was steady and her eyes narrow. She was a strong one.

“Another five went around the side, but they’ll be back. I’m not sure how long we can hold it closed.”

“Don’t,” Robinson said, and the woman blanched. “When I give the signal, let the slack out a foot or so.”

The woman nodded. Robinson took out his axes and stepped to the side of the doors. When he was ready, he signaled. The chain loosed, and hands reached for the door. Robinson quickly hacked at every show of flesh, and fingers rained down into the dirt amid screams. The chain was pulled taut, and the barn doors closed once again.

“Be a while before they try that again,” the strong woman said.

Robinson nodded and smiled, but that smile faded when the mute sister whistled from the front of the barn. Reinforcements had arrived.

Her hands flashed once, twice.

Twenty more men.

Far too many.

“Finish barring the door!” Robinson yelled to the farmers at the rear of the barn. “Use everything not nailed down!”

He ran back toward the front of the barn. The mutes were continuing to fire arrows, but the Flayers were returning fire at twice their number. Once the mute sister’s quiver was depleted, she started plucking the enemy’s arrows from the wall near her. Just as she leaned out to retrieve one, a live arrow struck her in the calf, and she dropped to the boards. She quickly pulled herself out of sight and reached for her pack to bandage the wound.

The mute brother stamped his foot to get her attention, but she waved him off and even managed some kind of smile. It was one of the bravest things Robinson had ever seen. The mute brother responded by stepping out from cover to fire three arrows in quick succession. From the cries that followed, each must have found their mark.

Robinson signaled the mute brother from below, whose eyes were full of anger and resentment that said,
You’ll pay for this.

“How many?” Robinson asked.

The mute brother peeked outside for another look. He turned back and flashed both hands three times.

If being incredibly outnumbered wasn’t bad enough, the wind had picked up, blowing the smoke from the burning house in their direction.

Blind and outnumbered. Could it possibly get worse?

The answer came as the mute brother stamped his foot again. He pointed outside to the left. Robinson ran to the front and peered out an old window. There, he saw five or six Bone Flayers had acquired a wooden cart and were using it as cover to move closer. Among them was Black Hand.

“You,” one of the hale farmers called out. “You need to see this!”

Robinson rushed to the right side of the barn and looked out through a broken window of an old metal door to see a second group of Flayers huddled together. One held a clay jar that he was trying to light on fire.

Robinson looked around and spotted something.

“Open the door when I give the signal,” he said.

Robinson slid his axes inside their hitches and bent over to pick up a rock. He pulled out his sling as he loaded the rock into the pouch. After two revolutions, Robinson nodded, and the farmers threw open the door. Robinson stepped out and released the stone just as the Flayer was about to toss the clay jar. It shattered, and a shroud of fire instantly covered the closest three Flayers.

Robinson ducked back inside an instant before arrows stitched the door. The farmers slammed it shut as the screams of the burning men pierced the afternoon air.

Inside, children continued to cry. Robinson took a deep breath and knew it was only a matter of time before the Flayers returned with more flammable material. They might not be able to burn the barn down, but they could smoke out or asphyxiate those inside.

Robinson ran to the ladder and climbed to the loft. He leaned over the mute sister, who was wincing with pain but still firing arrows from her seated position.

“How is it?” Robinson asked.

She shrugged bravely, but the answer was obvious.

Robinson rushed across the loft to stand behind the mute brother.

“As you can see, they have numbers,” Robinson said. “We can hold this position a while and pick off a few here and there, but eventually, they’ll find a weak point.”

The mute brother gesticulated toward the front, but Robinson shook his head.

“A frontal attack might surprise them for a moment or two, but we’d still be out in the open with them behind cover. These people are farmers, not fighters. Once the hand-to-hand starts …”

He didn’t need to finish. They both knew the situation was grave. Robinson could have cursed himself for getting into this mess, but it would do no good. Friday had taught him that there’s an answer for every foe and every battle. The most important thing was to keep a level head until that answer came.

When it hit him, he giggled. The mute brother raised an eyebrow, but Robinson shook his head.

He signaled the farmer below. “Go back to the rear of the barn and tell everyone to come up here.”