James Axler – Gemini Rising

“But not with us.” Henderson cackled gleefully, taking a little pinch of snuff. “William, dress our sec men in the colors of BullRun ville. If Front Royal seeks retribution, they’ll attack that blond bitch up north, not us.”

“Brilliant, sir!” a teenage sec man gushed. “Hail the baron! Hip, hip”

“Shut up, fool,” Henderson snapped irritably. “If I want my ass kissed, I’ll summon your wife.”

“Sir,” the boy replied stiffly, his face red.

“Afterward, we can seize first one ville, then the other before they can recover,” William added, warming to the idea greatly. “Supporting troops over so great a distance, even with horses and wags, will strain their exhausted supplies to the breaking point.

“In fact,” he went on thoughtfully, “starting a war between Front Royal and BullRun might be the best thing to ever happen to Casanova ville.”

Chapter Seven

Dusk was starting to fall by the time the campsite was secure. The four trucks were parked in a circle a safe distance from the farmhouse, and a large fire was crackling with the passengers and companions gathered around.

Doc and Jak were on patrol, and they walked through the growing darkness, looking for spoor or tracks, and finding nothing but cicadas and a rusted plow attached to the skeleton of a horse.

“Working AC?” the teenager asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Not right. Tell Ryan.”

“We will,” Doc promised. “Once Stephen goes to sleep.”

“Check boxes?” Jak asked.

“Indeed I did, my friend. They were full of wire. Insulated wiring and light switches, outlets and fuse boxes from predark homes and offices.”

“Nothing more?”

“Every box I checked,” the old man stated.

“Damn.”

“I concur,” Doc said, frowning. He kicked a clot of dirt out of his way, and it rolled off into the weeds. The cicadas instantly became quiet. “Somebody is very certain that Front Royal has electricity.”

“Or will soon,” Jak concurred.

Doc breathed in the night air, thinking back to his life in Vermont. Then he shook off the memories. That was another world, no longer his. “I know the fortress itself has power, perhaps wind generated, but it’s used only for emergencies. Lighting the fields when there is a fight, and such. But Stephen has enough cable here to wire the whole ville and most of the surrounding hamlets, house by house.”

“Wrong,” Jak stated. “Where get power?”

“Indeed, my young friend,” Doc said, resting his swordstick on a shoulder. “That is the big question. In a world of slave labor, where batteries are often considered magical, where do they plan to get enough electricity to power an entire ville?”

As they returned to the campsite, Dean nimbly darted between the men and dodged a parked wag to drop a load of wood on top of a stack near the campfire. The timbers were broken at the ends, severely heat discolored, and most had nails sticking out.

“Need any more?” asked the boy, dusting his dirty hands on his pant legs. “I have most of the wall down for easy pickings.”

“No, thanks,” Krysty replied, stirring the campfire with a green stick. “Better go wash. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Aw, they’re clean enough,” Dean said, displaying his slightly improved hands.

“Wash,” she stated firmly, and the boy walked off as if heading for certain doom.

“How is it coming, madam?” Doc asked, sniffing eagerly.

“Soon enough,” she replied, turning the roasting opossum on the iron spit. A little song from her childhood came unbidden to mind the faster meat turns, the slower it cooks. The slower meat turns, the sooner you eat. True words.

Dried beans from the caravan supplies were simmering in a pan of water with pale lumps of salt pork mixed in. Mildred had added some dandelion greens from the weeds.

Studying the pan, Jak reached into his jacket and poured in a shot of moonshine. “Flavoring,” he explained.

“Where did you get that?” Krysty asked. “Gift.” He smiled and tucked the bottle away. “From friends.”

“Friends, plural?”

“Yeah.”

Hiding a smile, Krysty returned to cooking. “I understand.”

Skinned and gutted, the opossum suspended above the flames was so large it was bending the old iron rod she had shoved down the gullet as a cook rod. The animal was so big Krysty thought it had to be a mutie, but the others assured her that twenty pounds was normal size for an opossum. The smell was almost painfully good.