Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (12 page)

“Me da questioned the both of them before he shoved them off the wall with a noose round each neck. He knows, and he knows my price. He's pretty mad. Not to say, rip-shit furious. I got out, just ahead of three crossbow bolts and Greer Tennart's longbow arrow.”

He stared into eyes colder and more deadly than Sean's. “Sean—Sean told me he's led the Sherries, has since you guys escaped Sheridan, way back Change Day. Now he's dead, I guess yer the new laird.”

Alasdair gave a bark of laughter, and slapped Colin. He stumbled sideways from the force, the flat salt taste of blood all over his tongue. From a crouch, he looked up, cowering away from the angry man.

“I'm the boss of the Sherries if anyone is!” Alasdair was practically snarling. “Not Dubya, not Andy, not Sean. Rick and I, we know how to lead a guerrilla troop. We got the experience in El Salvador. Sean was just my little brother . . . got us all in hot water.”

Colin nodded, eager to keep them talking. He could feel Aisha fading back toward the mountain slope, the llamas screening her. He spat redly into his hands and glared up at Alasdair.

“Bastard! Didn't need to hit so hard. I'm only repeating what Sean tol' me. He said you was bank robbers and he kilt a man.”

Colin could feel the men around him paying attention, their eyes on Alasdair. He stood cautiously, holding a few pebbles in his hands.

“And if he hadn't kilt the guard and shot the cashier, we wouldn't have landed in federal prison for . . .”

Alasdair shook his head, scowling. “You behave like a good little boy and I'll use you to bribe your paw to open Stronghold to us after we take out this Dell. Been blocking us from Gold Beach for years, he has.”

“Dun need to bribe me da. There's a back way in. Only four people know it.”

Alasdair drew in a satisfied breath. “Good . . . good . . . An easy way in, and you to kill your father in his bed.”

Colin moved as Alasdair looked up, a puzzled frown growing on his face. The click of the stones brought his eyes back and he slapped a stone out of reach. “Fool boy! Why do you do that?”

“Nervous habit . . . but it riles m' faither something awful.”

“Well, it riles, me, too. Stop it!”

Colin let the rocks fall. It looked random, but he saw one smack Andy's right elbow. There was a satisfying thunk and he suppressed a grin.

“So what's the plan?” he asked, wishing he could sneak a peek at Aisha or his improvised beacon.

Alasdair slapped at him again and Colin swayed out of the way with a yelp that landed him against the man called Dubya. He danced away, with a sharp belt knife hidden in the folds of his great kilt, leaving a slice through the man's webbing belt. One good tug at the sword and it would all fall apart.

Alasdair clapped his hands once and the seething mass of men quieted.

He pointed at Colin. “Quiet, you!”

“We'll split, soon. As soon as the bank is shallow enough, Dubya and his seven will cross over and hide around the place they call CrossCot. Remember, we don't attack until dawn. It's the best way to make sure we don't get caught.

“Andy, you and me'll go up this slope and I'll lead my six against the Hall while you take your ten to the place they call Table Meadow and . . .” Alasdair looked north and east and they all froze. Colin's dead tree was burning merrily, spewing up a thick column of smoke.

“Where's the woman? She did that! Find her and kill her! Knew that piece of black ass was going to be trouble!”

Colin tensed as one of the men yanked on Llama-Dama's leading rein, lifting a knife. The llama's ears went back, she gave her gobbling screech and rammed the man in the chest, knocking him down. She jumped on him and stomped a few times for good measure and set off down the road at a brisk trot. Dali-Llama followed posthaste, spitting in one man's face. Colin searched the mountain scree, but Aisha's brown and gold and black plaid blended in just as well or better than camouflage and he couldn't spot her.

The men were milling, now, trying to sort themselves into the groups Alasdair had named. Colin faded back, away from the three leaders, hoping to get away and follow the two llamas. He stooped and grabbed some more egg-sized stones for good measure, looking right and left. Climbing the scree was possible, but he was sure Aisha was somewhere on the slope, so having a dozen men struggling up the unstable surface wasn't a good idea. Jumping over the side to the riverbank was another possibility that didn't make him feel very confident. Forward to Mickleson's was out.

He faded down the road, faded again, behind him were five Sherries, two, none. “Grab the boy!”

He turned and ran all out after the llamas' thudding steps. He could hear the men baying behind, like a pack of dogs . . .

That's good! Dogs they are; vicious, unprincipled poorly trained scavengers! Nothing like the well-trained brutes that guard our Dells and Stronghold.

Colin suddenly realized that llamas don't sound like kettledrums . . . or lambegs. They have feet that patter and nails that click. He ran harder and came skidding round a spur to see his father at the head of a mass of men and women.

Behind him he heard Alasdair screaming, “Leave the boy, leave the boy! We've got to hole up at Mickleson's!”

He didn't wait to see if pursuit stopped. Pell-mell he ran for his father's banner: four white and black Tudor roses on a purple background with a silver sword, slanted left-lower corner to right upper. The llamas pulled up and danced uneasily in front of Hamish McClintock. Colin dashed up and grabbed them by the shoulders.

“They're going for the Mickleson's! And Aisha's up on the mountain somewhere.”

“Get off the trail and let us pass. We'll take them down once and for all. Sean said there were twenty at RoeDell.”

“You did smoke him! The dirty liar! They're forty of them just down the trail.”

“Your girl, yon Robin did that. Smart lassie . . . and heir to the Dell. Derek died at Matins, poor lad. So, after Sean opened the postern for Malc, I socked him in the heid . . . and the guard shot Robson like the mad dog he was.”

Colin tried to laugh, but the swollen cheek from Alasdair's blow hurt, and all he could do was grimace. He pulled back, happy to let his father and the seventy men from Stronghold go forward.

He followed, leading the llamas. “Aisha is going to kill me anyway, but if I bring you back to her, she might do it fast instead of torturing me,” he observed to Dali-Llama, who snorted his disbelief.

by
Lauren C. Teffeau

Lauren C. Teffeau was born and raised on the East Coast, educated in the South, employed in the Midwest, and now lives and dreams in the Southwest. In the summer of 2012, she attended Taos Toolbox, a master class in writing science fiction and fantasy. When she was younger, she poked around in the back of wardrobes, tried to walk through mirrors, and always kept an eye out for secret passages, fairy rings, and messages from aliens. She was disappointed. Now she writes to cope with her ordinary existence. Her work can be found in a variety of speculative fiction magazines and anthologies. To learn more, please visit laurencteffeau.com.

I
t had been a day full of anemic sun and salt breeze. Perfect for sailing. And salvage.

As the
Windfall
crossed the swirling line where the electric blue waters of the Prince William Sound met the slate gray of the gulf, Mitch told the kids to stay alert.

Unlike the storm surges and eddies that ate away the edges of the mainland, the open sea had an energy all its own. Simple mistakes could turn deadly, especially out here. Only a few feet of fiberglass, metal, and wood separated his family from the expanse of the sea. As the snow-draped ridges of the Kenai Mountains faded into the distance, anxiety settled low in his spine. He manned the tiller, keeping the thirty-six-foot sloop pointed eastward.

They were roughly five leagues off the coast, south of Montague Island, when his son Edward let out a cry, pointing starboard. “What do you think, Dad?” Eddie shielded his eyes against the afternoon glare off the choppy water and strained against the railing like an overeager puppy.

Mitch raised his binoculars and inspected the deck of a marooned yacht. Some yuppie's toy left to rot thanks to the diesel engine, the now-shredded sails just for show. The canvas fluttered and snapped in the breeze—a rippling sound like playing cards clipped to the spokes of a bicycle. The anchor had kept the boat in place. That a squall hadn't sent it under was a miracle.

Then again, that's what Mitch was counting on.

“No bodies on the deck,” Danielle said from her perch at the bow.

“That doesn't mean anything. We'll anchor here and row over.”

“Aww, come on, Dad.” Dani had her hand on her hip, the other hand clenching the jack line running bow to stern.

Mitch knew both kids thought him overly paranoid, but it had served them well so far.

“I'll not risk the
Windfall
.” He turned back to Eddie. “Prepare to drop anchor.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The twelve-year-old boy clambered across the deck and reeled out the anchor. The heaving waters greedily swallowed the metal links.

“Dani, you—”

“I know, I know. Dad, I got it.”

Mitch suffered through the rolled eyes as she helped him adjust the sails so they could set the anchor. She did good work, which made her think she knew it all. Except patience and prudence. Which he didn't have at fifteen either.

Eddie helped him lower the dinghy over the side of the
Windfall
. He had a leg over the railing before Mitch reached out a hand to stop him.

“No. Dani and I'll go over first and scope things out.”

“But I always stay behind.” His voice cracked on the whine.

“We need you here as lookout. If things go to hell, you'll need to get the
Windfall
ready to sail. That's a huge responsibility. You know that.”

Eddie slunk back onto the deck with a pout.

“Tell you what. Next time, I'll have Dani be lookout, okay?”

Eddie brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes and gave him a reluctant nod.

Mitch passed him his binoculars. “Make sure you—”

Eddie looped them over his neck. “I won't drop them, Dad. Even if I did, it's not like we don't have four other pairs belowdecks.”

Mitch frowned. “They're for trading. And no excuse not to take care of what we have.”

Dani finished securing the mainsail to the boom and joined them at the railing. He helped her down into the dinghy, and followed her in as she settled into the seat at the stern. Eddie passed them wooden oars and then the rope lead.

Winds were maybe five knots at most from the north, but no guarantee they'd stay that way. Mitch scanned the western horizon and saw nothing that gave him pause. Still . . .

“Keep an eye on the weather,” he said to Eddie. “If all goes well, we'll pick you up after we drop off the first load.”

Mitch pushed the dinghy off the fiberglass hull of the
Windfall
and fought the current with each stroke as he rowed them toward the yacht.

“Easy now,” Dani called out when they were maybe a dozen feet out.

He jammed the oars into the water, the drag slowing them down enough the dinghy bounced off, instead of slammed against, the hull of the yacht. Mitch searched the exterior and found a cleat off the rear deck for them to tie off the dinghy.

He handed the oars to Dani. “Once I'm on board—”

“Dad, I know.”

He bit back a response as he levered himself onto the yacht. Water sloshed as the dinghy squeaked against the yacht's transom. The metal railings sapped his hands of any warmth. When Dani passed the oars up to him, he barely felt the smooth wood.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

So that's how it was going to be.

Dani's voice always took on that grating quality of his ex-wife's when she was pissed, which seemed like always these days. But, he supposed, teens were teens, even when civilization was crashing down around you.

Mitch scanned the deck, his hand hovering over the hunting knife sheath that hung off his belt. After a moment, he relaxed. Still empty. The snapping, lacerated sails the only sound.

“Permission granted.”

Dani's brown braids bobbed into view, the rest of her gangly frame followed, emphasized by the way the life jacket over her windbreaker hugged her body. He frowned. Bordering on too thin for a girl her age.

“We'll check below. Cover me.”

Dani didn't answer, just kept her oar out in front of her.

The cabin door was shut tight. He tried the handle.

“Locked.”

Dani peered around his shoulder. “Do you want me to get the pick kit?”

Mitch jiggled the handle again. There was just enough give to make him think . . . “Stand back.”

He brought the butt-end of the oar down on the handle, then once more for good measure. Metal popped, and the cabin door creaked open. The stench of rot—food, folk, and forgotten spaces—smacked them in the face.

“God, I hate this part,” Dani muttered behind him.

“Look sharp,” Mitch said as he pushed down the short flight of stairs.

Wall-to-wall wood paneling surrounded him. Not cheap veneers. The real stuff. Probably take a couple of days to strip it off the walls, bundle it back onto the
Windfall
. And then? The folks in Homer were rebuilding something fierce. He'd probably get enough foodstuffs and supplies to get the kids through winter.

“What's that?” Dani pointed to the V-berth.

The door was half-closed. An arm was draped across the threshold.

Mitch stepped past the galley right off the stairs. Cupboards hung open. Empty cans, wrappers, used sugar and ketchup packets were strewn across the floor along with an upturned bag of flour. You could live on flour gruel for a while, but without potable water . . .

Vomit stains had soaked into the tightly woven carpet leading to the berth. He pushed the door open with the tip of his boot. The smell intensified, but each subsequent openmouthed breath made it easier to bear.

Mitch stared down at the body, recently dead. Male, middle-aged, wearing better quality outerwear than his own. Real down and lamb's wool, not the synthetic stuff that itched as much as it kept you warm. They looked to be about the same size. Good. He could use a fresh set of clothes.

He eased out of the room. “Stay here.” He poked through another berth, then the chart and engine rooms. All empty.

Dani squealed. He wheeled around, clocking his head on the low doorway leading back to the main saloon. He shook off the pain in time to see Dani brandishing her oar against a gaunt young man a few years older and a few inches taller than her.
Where'd he come from?

Shaggy brown hair shielded his eyes. An inarticulate cry escaped his wind-chapped lips as he lunged toward Dani.

She dodged and darted around the bar. Her eyes widened in relief when she spotted Mitch.

“Dad! He won't listen to me.”

“Hey. We're here to help if—”

At Mitch's voice, the guy veered away from the bar and faced him. He seemed too scrawny to do much damage. Mitch revised that assumption when the guy's fist flew out and caught Mitch's shoulder. Agony lanced down his arm, short-circuiting the reasonable part of his brain. He reacted swiftly, smacking the kid in the head with his oar. Hard. He collapsed, knocking against a barstool bolted to the floor. It squeaked as the seat rotated around and around in counterpoint to Dani's harsh breaths.

She came up next to him and leaned into his side. She hadn't done that in years. “He was hiding in one of the lockers, I think.” She glanced up at him. “Can we help him?”

Too many times in the months right after things changed, they'd stumbled upon people stranded on their fancy boats that had suddenly stopped working. Most didn't know how to really sail—the pure unadulterated way without radar, GPS, engine backup to get you back to harbor when the winds and the currents weren't cooperating.

In the early days, they'd provided safe passage to the marooned. The law of the sea and all. That didn't keep him from marking each ship's position on his chart and returning to the spot to strip it down of anything remotely useful. Which was usually everything.

He glanced at Dani, then back at the young man. Still out cold. They'd come across folks half-crazed with hunger before, but something had been off about this guy. Mitch didn't like it.

“Keep an eye on him. I'll be right back.”

He found the locker Dani mentioned. Inside, bones and gristly joints were scattered across the floor. One bone was too big to be anything other than . . . Jesus. Nausea burned the back of his throat. He lurched back to where Dani hovered over that . . . monster.

He shoved her away and pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath.

“What are you—”

He ripped the blade through the guy's trachea as if he was cleaning a halibut. Blood dribbled down the front of his thermal pullover. Mitch straightened. The barstool slowed to a stop on one last creak.

He faced Dani. “He wasn't worth saving. Ate at least one member of the crew, and was probably saving the other for later. I may not go to church like your mom, but I know what's unholy.” He took a deep breath. “You understand?”

Dani nodded. The shock in her eyes slowly shifted to grim resignation. Good girl. On a ship a few months ago, they'd encountered cannibalism, but Mitch had managed to keep it from the kids. No such luck this time. He forced himself to look away from the body. There was enough that needed done it wasn't too hard.

“When we get your brother over here, we'll dispose of the bodies.”

Normally they made a point of giving the folks they scavenged from a proper send-off. But Mitch didn't want the taint of whatever transpired here looming over them as they worked.

“We'll load up as much as we can before nightfall. Tomorrow, we'll see how to get this stuff down.”

He rapped his knuckles along the paneling, and was rewarded with a beautifully solid sound.

The corners of Dani's mouth drooped. “That'll take forever.”

“That'll keep us fed for months,” he countered.

That shut her up as they tromped back up and waved to Eddie, duly keeping watch on board the
Windfall
. She had one leg hitched over the gunwale, ready to climb back down to the canoe to bring him over.

He didn't blame her for wanting to get away, but he couldn't afford to coddle her. “Hold up, hold up. Don't want to waste a trip.”

He cast about the deck, finding a fishing rod locker set against the wall of the wheelhouse. Gleaming graphite rods and reels with stainless steel bearings. “Jackpot.”

*   *   *

H
OMER
C
OOPERATIVE
, S
OUTH
C
ENTRAL
A
LASKA
O
CTOBER
15, C
HANGE
Y
EAR
0/1998 AD

Dixon Moore, the elected head of newly formed Homer Cooperative, fingered the wood, satin finished tongue-and-groove oak, turning it over and over again against the table with stubby fingers.

The tap-slide-tap made Mitch's skin crawl, although it could have just been the itchy hemmed-in feeling he got whenever he bundled up the kids with some choice goods to trade and reluctantly rejoined civilization for a few hours. He couldn't stomach it for much longer. Even if the new Homer was more pleasant than most of the communities that had cobbled a life from the ruins.

Dixon, all six and a half feet of him, crowded the end of the mahogany dining room table that must have been scavenged from one of the million-dollar retirement homes that dotted the coast. The room—a converted hangar on the opposite side of the Kachemak Bay from where the original town of Homer sat—served as the Cooperative's chambers. Chairs lined the walls for overflow attendance, Mitch guessed. Metal-folding, factory-assembled, and even one hand-carved wooden throne shaped to look like you were sitting in a grizzly bear's lap—probably taken from some kitschy bed-and-breakfast the tourists used to flock to in the summertime.

Right now, though, it was just the two of them, underscored by the empty woodstoves on either end of the room. At least the chill in the air dulled the smell of old diesel. Mitch regretted taking off his hat when he first arrived and went through the obligatory pleasantries with Dixon and his second, Tom. But Mitch refused to put it back on in the middle of a negotiation. Weakness to a second-generation Alaskan like Dixon. Instead, he kept his hands jammed into the pockets of his down parka.

“You say you have more of this?” Dixon's words created cloudy puffs above their heads.

“Yep. Brought two crates with us. More if you want it.”