Chapter 7
I
Their first sight of the settlement was from the almost blinding reflections cast by the morning sun as it hit the distorted windows of the houses before them. They were unsure, at first, whether to approach the settlement or to avoid the place completely, giving it a wide birth.
The rumbling of their stomachs in demand for at least one decent meal got the better of them.
They were eyed with caution as they entered the main street from the north side of the settlement, their weapons in plain view, but kept away from their hands, as open a gesture of friendship as they were able to muster. Mothers hid their children behind them as the youngsters tried to get a good look at the strangers. Fathers eyed them suspiciously, muscles taut and tensed, ready to strike at the first hint of trouble.
They smiled at everyone, offered a hand to a few, but received naught but the stares of fear and resentment.
They stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of a booming voice form somewhere behind the crowd.
“Halt, strangers,” the voice began, strong and masterful, used to being obeyed, “this is my town and I shall have no trouble here.”
Matthew did his best to be friendly with his response. “We mean you no harm,” he began. “We are only travelling through and seek nothing but a moment’s shelter and perhaps the hospitality of a good meal.”
The owner of the voice made his way through the crowd, a tall, broad shouldered man who moved with the confidence of command, dismissing the crowd to either side of his purposeful advance. He stood there a moment, eyeing them up and down before speaking again.
“You do not look like members of the usual tribes that we get in these parts,” the tall man continued, beginning to circle Matthew at the head of the group, paying careful attention to his weapons. “Southerners, maybe?”
“It’s true,” Matthew replied in his best diplomatic tone. “We are far from home, but want nothing more than to return there.”
Matthew smiled the smile that had won him many a young lady’s heart in his youth, but felt that it was somewhat wasted on the man before him. To his surprise, the man smiled back.
“Then no harm will come to you,” he said. “Welcome to Sanctuary.”
II
The mood changed dramatically as the townspeople gathered for the midday meal, the contents of a large cooking pot forming the mainstay of the cuisine. There was plenty for everyone and good humour in equal proportions. Ben ate with the ferocity of a starving animal as he watched Joe and Mike tussle with some of the younger children.
Matthew tried to share their good spirits, but was increasingly wary of the time. The sun had reached its zenith above them, casting the smallest of shadows as it struggled to be seen through the breaking clouds, though failing to illuminate the growing sense of darkness within himself. They had lost almost three hours of daylight already, valuable travelling time if they were making their way to the laboratory, especially with the unusually dry day that they were experiencing.
“It’s been a rough week or so, boss,” Carl said to Matthew, tucking heartily into the stew, “and all this sleeping out in the open like this isn’t doing my old joints any good. I’m surprised none of us have caught our death out here.”
“But every minute we waste is a minute closer that our enemies are to our homeland,” Matthew replied between mouthfuls.
“I know,” Carl agreed, “but how far do you think we would have gotten if we’d had to go another day without food. How many days has it been now since we found enough dry wood to make a fire? Five? six? I don’t even know what day it is anymore. A good leader needs to know when to rest his troops, Matthew, as well as when to march them.”
Matthew knew that he was right, but left him anyway, slamming his bowl of steaming stew onto the makeshift table in the process. He wasn’t thinking straight anymore. When his mind wasn’t trying to ignore the griping pains of hunger gnawing away at his insides, it played him images of his home in flames, the Royal palace in ruins as the armies of Island City cast another body onto the mounting piles. He had long since forgotten the last night that he had had untroubled sleep.
He was a fair distance away from the main group when a voice spoke from behind him, calming yet masterful.
“We are the same, you and I,” it said. It was the tall man who had greeted them earlier. Apparently, he had followed Matthew as he had left the midday gathering.
Matthew spun around to face him, snatched from his own internal world, eyeing him suspiciously. “You know nothing about me,” he snapped, his voice awash with the anger that had been bubbling to the surface for days.
“Perhaps,” the town’s leader continued, “but I see so much of myself in you that it is hard to deny. We are both trying to achieve the impossible against insurmountable odds, yes?”
“Who are you?” Matthew asked.
“In this place I am known as Victor Freeman,” he said, “but if truth be told, I have had other names before this one.”
“I was taught that a man who cannot take the name of his father is not to be trusted,” Matthew said, bracing himself for a fight.
“Wise teachings,” Victor mused, “but a man has no control over his past, only his future. In this town, I believe that a man should not be burdened by the shadow of his past misdeeds, but be judged by his actions in the present. I ask only that my people have learnt from their mistakes and have been made stronger by enduring them, as should we all.”
There was no response that Matthew could make to that. Regardless of his ideals and strong values, Matthew's life had been far from easy, as could be said for most of his people on the Road Trains. He had brought them together and given them the opportunity to become more than they were, a second chance some might say, and he was starting to realise that Victor was doing just the same for the people of the Wastelands. For perhaps the first time in days, he let his guard down and allowed himself to relax, at least a little.
“Please, come sit with me and talk a while,” Victor offered. “I think you will realise just how similar we are.”
Victor’s house was on higher ground than the others and slightly larger, but structurally of much the same construction. It was nothing like the buildings of Draxis or even Island City, but for all of its faults, to Victor it was home.
“Please, have a seat,” Victor said as he tossed his weather-worn overcoat over the back of a broken old chair and busied himself with the task of gathering some dry wood for the fire.
“My name is Matthew,” Matthew said.
“I know,” he continued as he selected some of the straighter pieces of wood from the bucket near the door. “I heard your friends use it earlier.”
There was a pause and before long, there was a small fire and a warm drink to go with the bread and meat that the two men shared.
“Tell me, how do you come to be so far into the Wastelands?” Victor asked, touching little of his own food as he watched Matthew eat.
“I could ask the same of you,” Matthew responded, wary of the line of questioning.
“And I would gladly tell you,” Victor continued.
Matthew said nothing in response, instead biting a large piece of meat.
“As you wish,” Victor told him. “Never let it be said that I am not fond of my own voice. I have always been here in the Wastelands. I was born here, and I suppose that I will die here, one day. You, on the other hand?”
“I am a long way from home,” Matthew replied, his voice deep with sorrow.
Matthew paused, contemplating his position, his eyes betraying more than his words would ever allow. He found it hard to meet Victor’s gaze again. “You don’t live like the other tribes I’ve encountered,” Matthew commented, turning the piece of meat uncomfortably over and over in his hands.
“Because we are not a tribe,” Victor replied. “We are a community. When I first established Sanctuary, there were only five or six families who would come with me, but look
at us now.”
Victor stood and moved to one of the murky panes of glass that served as window, beckoning Matthew to follow him. Their relative height in respect to the rest of the buildings gave both men a good view of the growing town.
“At last count, there were more than a hundred families here,” Victor continued, “living together as one, and more arriving every month. They, like me, grew tired of the tribes, the constant destruction as we fought for food and supplies, taking what our neighbours had and giving nothing back in return. Now we grow our own food, crops, and cattle in the fields around the settlement, working together.”
Victor returned to his chair, but Matthew stood there a moment longer, unable to take his eyes from the realisation of one man's dream.
“So why haven’t the tribes attacked you?” Matthew asked as he finished his drink.
“Some have tried,” Victor said, “but we were not always farmers. We have made something special here, and we will defend it. They have learnt that now, and so they leave us in peace. They are always welcome to join us if they wish, as long as they adhere to the rules of the community as a whole.”
“Such as?” Matthew asked, fascinated.
“We strive to live in peace with our neighbours, and we will not take up arms against another without provocation. Nor will we take what is not ours. As more people arrive, we gather the materials that cover the landscape and help them build homes, but we will not take those materials from others. There is sufficient here in the Wastelands for everyone, so long as we work together.”
“In all my travels through the Wastelands,” Matthew began, but the words escaped him. He had lost count of the number of attacks that the tribes had made on the Road Trains over the years, even as far back as his grandfather, to the point where the concept of peaceful Wastelanders seemed almost alien to him.
“As I said before,” Victor reminded him, “my name has not always been Victor, and this has not always been my way. Time changes a man in more ways than he can measure. That is life’s journey.”
Matthew sat there, simultaneously confused and amazed, and for the first time noticed Victor’s emerald green eyes, watching him, scrutinising his every expression or gesture. To Victor, each face told a story, each line a path along a man’s own journey, linking together in a never-ending road from birth to death.
“We still have such a long way to go,” Matthew said, unsure of where the words were coming from, the sounds cascading from his mouth seemingly without input from his mind.
“I have seen that in your face since the moment we first met,” Victor informed him.
“And there’s so little time left,” Matthew continued.
“Perhaps,” Victor agreed.
Matthew was unsure of what he meant, or how he was supposed to respond, but Victor hadn't finished.
“They look to you for leadership, you know, and you worry that you are failing them,” Victor told him. “Your face tells me so much, Matthew, far more than you could know. Your time has been hard of late, and it will get harder, believe me, but you can succeed. Remember, I see so much of myself in you, so you have to see some of yourself in me.”
“But I am so tired,” Matthew pleaded, but was silenced with a single gesture of Victor’s hand.
“We all get tired, my friend,” Victor said soothingly. “Perhaps it is time to sleep.”
He blinked once, and as he opened his eyes, he found Arian in his arms, bathed in the bright light of morning.
III
It had not rained a drop all day, even though the grey clouds still hung in the sky, blocking out the sun and later the stars, but not darkening the mood of the evening.
They had not seen Matthew since lunchtime, but Victor had assured them that he was well and needed some time alone, but he had wanted them to make the most of their evening together. For reasons they could not explain, they believed this stranger without hesitation, and drank and made merry well into the night.
The food was good and the ale plentiful as each of them laughed and joked, as though the last few weeks had not happened but had been a dream, a nightmare from which they had finally awoken.
Or perhaps this was the dream, a moment of hope and happiness, taking them away from the darkness that had become their waking world.
It didn’t matter.
They all knew that tomorrow they would be back on the road again, cold, wet and hungry, trudging forth towards this fabled laboratory that was to be their deliverance.
So for just one night, they drank and danced and celebrated, well into the early hours of the morning, in a last ditch attempt to remind themselves that they were still alive.
IV
It was Catrina’s plan, but perfectly implemented by the remainder of the team. They moved as one with a single ethos.
Get in.
Hit them hard.
Get out fast.
It only had to be a matter of time before something went wrong.
V
Alexander was awoken from his sleep by the sound of a large explosion, then a second, then a third, tearing through the night. Was it just his imagination, or had he really felt the walls of the trailer shake around him.
Surely they couldn’t be that close, could they? All of the munitions had been brought to the front of the convoy and he’d doubled the guards around anything of value. The number of patrols in that area had almost trebled. It wasn’t possible that they could have got close enough to do him any real damage for a second time.
Dragging himself from his bed, he pulled on his heavy overcoat and made his way towards the rear of the trailer. He was fastening his left boot when Samuel Larson burst in through the door.
“It’s them, sir, they’ve struck again,” he stammered, struggling for breath as if he had just ran all the way from Island City to deliver the news.
“What do you think I am, soldier, deaf or stupid?” Alexander bellowed back.
Samuel opened and closed his mouth a few times as though intending to respond, but decided he would do better to remain silent. “Now show me,” Alexander continued, almost throwing the young man through the door.
He could see the roaring blaze from the door of the trailer, lapping yellow flames and a plume of smoke clambering towards the sky. The rain was nothing more than a drizzle, enough to wet his face and hair, but nothing like the volume of water they would need to put out the fires.
They were surrounded on both sides as they made their way towards the fires. There were soldiers of every rank, all racing with them towards the blaze, carrying blankets and buckets of water in the hope that they may help in dousing the growing fire that was illuminating the evening.
As Alexander watched, the flames died down a touch and then rose up again, larger than before, as though teasing the falling rainwater, mocking the clouds, daring them to rain more.
It was a few more minutes before they reached the centre of the commotion, the three burning wagons somehow blending into one. He wiped his hand across his forehead and watched as the droplets fell to the ground, like precious stones in the artificial light of the blaze.
“You there, Sergeant,” Alexander shouted at the man directing the other soldiers, his voice barely audible over the sounds of curses and exclamations from around the roaring fire.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, snapping instantly to attention, turning his back on the blaze to face his leader.
The three men instinctively ducked and covered their faces as a remaining powder keg on the furthest wagon exploded, followed closely by the screams and cries of someone nearby.
“Tell me what happened here,” Alexander demanded.
“We’re still not entirely sure yet, sir,” the sergeant began, wincing as he watched Alexander’s face redden with anger. “But there was some shooting on the far side of the Great Road, lost two of my guys, one of them point blank through the face. Then the first munitions wagon went up. Best we can figure, they must have thrown whatever it was f
rom up there,” he pointed, “amongst the underbrush. Whoever it was, must’ve had a good arm, is all I say.”
Alexander was getting angrier by the minute, clenching his fists at his side, fighting back the desire to take his frustrations out on the foolish man before him. Instead, he grabbed at the sergeant’s tunic and pulled him close until they were face to face. “I don’t care how good you think the throw must have been,” he hissed. “All I want to hear from you is who did this and what you’re going to do about it.”
“The… The first explosion caught the other two wagons beside it,” the sergeant stammered. “Caught my men off guard. Whoever did this made off back into the underbrush or maybe blended back into the crowd somehow.” He felt Alexander’s grip tighten. “But one of my guys said that he hit one of them, insists on it, he does.”
The sergeant landed heavily on his backside as Alexander turned and pulled Samuel as close to his face as the sergeant had been moments before. “Tell Boshtok I want this fire out and him ready in my chambers within the hour.”
VI
“Just hold still for a minute, will you? I need to get a look at this,” Peter insisted as he inspected the graze on Conrad’s left shoulder.
“Trust me, Pete, it’s just a flesh wound, barely got me at all. I’ll be fine,” Conrad replied as he tried once again to pull his sleeve down and cover the injury.
“But you almost weren’t,” Peter insisted. “We have to be more careful. One more stunt like that…our luck's not going to hold out forever, you know.”
Peter left the three men to marvel at their destruction and sat himself down beside Catrina. She shrank away from him as he did so.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, stern faced as ever.
“It’s just that, when that second soldier grabbed you like he did,” Peter persisted, “your face was so close to his when you fired. A muzzle flash can burn you real badly, you know.”
“I’m fine,” she said again and turned fully away from him. Begrudgingly, he let her be.
“We’ll stay here for a couple of hours,” Peter said as he interrupted the other men’s discussion about the heat and the beauty of the flames, “and sneak back into the convoy nearer the morning. I doubt they’ll send troops this deep into the woodland when it’s this dark, and if they did, they’d never find us, so I think we’ll be safe for now.” Peter sat in between them, nudging Simon to one side as he did so.
“They’re not going to let this go, you know,” Peter continued, “not a second time. There are going to be troops everywhere after this, edgy and trigger happy, and one wrong move from any of us . . .”
“Pete,” Donald interrupted, “just take your sergeant’s hat off for a minute, will you? We did it, and we’re okay, we’re all okay. So will you let us worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes?”
Peter cast a sideways glance at the curled up figure of Catrina and sighed as he left them to take the first watch himself.
VII
“So, General, tell me how you explain this fiasco,” Alexander shouted as he pounded his fist hard against the desk in what had become the makeshift war room.
“I’m not sure, Regent, but I’ll have those responsible in a matter of hours. They can’t get far,” General Boshtok replied, fiddling nervously with the lapel of his coat.
It was still a few hours until morning, the only light in the room provided by the sparsely placed candles on the desk, casting eerie shadows about their faces.
Boshtok stood at Alexander’s right and Samuel at his left, the remaining guards and advisers scattered about the room in nervous anticipation of what was to come.
“They don’t have to get far,” Alexander continued. “There are thousands upon thousands of people out there and this annoying little saboteur could be any one of them. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you can find them by morning? Do you want to stake your life on that?”
“No, no, my Liege,” Boshtok acquiesced.
“Then start talking sense, man, and tell me what you are really going to do about it,” Alexander demanded.
“I, we’ll increase the guards again,” Boshtok suggested. “They’ll never get near the weapons and munitions.”
“Why am I surrounded by such fools!” Alexander shouted, each person taking an involuntary step back from the table as he did so. “We did that already and it didn’t work! What is your official title, Boshtok, go on, remind me.”
“Commander of the Regent’s armies,” Boshtok mumbled under his breath.
“Commander of the Regent’s armies,” Alexander announced. “My armies, if I understand that correctly. So that means that you tell them what to do, and I tell you what to tell them what to do, is that right?”
The room was silent.
“My mistake then,” Alexander said. “You were never expected to think for yourself. Now sit down and be silent until I order you to say something.”
Boshtok lowered his head and shuffled away from the desk.
“Now, you there,” Alexander continued, pointing towards a scrawny-looking individual at the back of the trailer. “What have you learned from the prisoner so far?”
“Very little, my Liege,” he replied hurriedly, “but we are slowly wearing him down. We have still to try the Droca weed.”
“Bring him before me. I will continue the interrogation personally,” Alexander demanded.
“But, my Liege, we are not long finished with him,” the scrawny man said rapidly. “He is weakened and wounded; he may die if we continue so soon.”
“So we had best hurry or we may miss what he has to say, do you not agree?” Alexander suggested. The room mumbled in approval as Alexander cast his gaze across them, inviting them to question him again. No one had spine enough left even to speak.
With a smile more reptilian than human, Alexander dismissed them out into the night.
They hurried towards the door, leaving their pride at the table, scurrying like a plague of rats leaving a sinking ship.
“Wait, General,” Alexander called after them, his voice returning to the musical dreamlike tones of a successful politician. “One more point.”
Boshtok stood apprehensively in the doorway, turning to face Alexander, but unable to meet his gaze.
“Tell your men that anyone who brings me the heads of these saboteurs will be greatly rewarded,” Alexander informed him.
“What should I tell them the reward will be?” Boshtok asked hesitantly.
“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Alexander considered, “but the position of Commander of the Regent’s armies could well be vacant soon. Now get out of my sight.”
Boshtok left without saying a word.
VIII
The prisoner was brought before Alexander shortly after, battered and beaten, barely alive beneath the bruises and dried blood. He was barely recognisable as Tom, the man Matthew had sent south a little more than a week before. He was unable to walk due to the displaced fracture in his left leg, cruelly manipulated during his interrogation until his limb was irreparably deformed.
They had kept him awake since his capture, striking him swiftly about the face or head each time he dared lapse into sleep, though sadly, so far, none of the blows had been sufficient to knock him unconscious.
He was thrown painfully into a chair by the two guards who had carried him from the neighbouring trailer, one of them kicking his broken leg before leaving him in the company of Alexander. He didn’t realise it yet, but his previous ordeals had been only the beginning of his interrogation.
“It is often said,” Alexander began, “that if you want something done right, you should do it yourself. I believe that they are words to live by.” Alexander paced slowly, head held high, almost speaking to himself as he trod softly around the back of the man's head and then again into his field of vision.
“We have been here bef
ore, I think?” he continued. “I recognised your face, or at least what’s left of it, the moment I saw you. You were brought before me at the palace, sat in a chair very similar to the one you take up now. You spoke to me then, do you remember? Pleading for your life, insisting that you had never killed anyone, crying about how it had all been a terrible mistake. Do you remember that, crying into your hands as you sat before me? I was lenient then, gentle and forgiving of your crimes. I could be that person again, you know, and you could still walk out of here.”
Alexander chuckled to himself. “Well, maybe not walk,” he said, “but I’m sure you can grasp the sentiment. I will be asking you a series of questions, one after the other, nothing challenging, I assure you. All you have to do is answer them honestly, promptly of course, and then you can leave.”
Tom said nothing, only strained to watch as Alexander moved about the trailer, fighting to keep his one good eye open and perhaps anticipate the next blow. He had long ago given up any thought of escape and now only wished for a quick death. They had threatened to kill him when he was captured, a bullet in his face, to string him up from the nearest tree, and he was sure that he would not see the light of dawn, but that had been three days ago now, and still he had not been allowed to die.
He was battered and beaten, tired and weary, but broken only in body and never in spirit. He would never yield. Matthew had trusted him. As Alexander stopped directly in front of him, trying to meet the gaze of his one good eye, he kept the image of his mother in his head, singing him off to sleep with her sweetest lullaby.
“We’ll start with an easy one, shall we?” Alexander asked. “What do they call you?”
Tom was unsure whether he was still capable of speech, the dried blood that had sealed closed his right eye also binding together the corners of his mouth. He had been denied all but the merest sips of water since his capture and his tongue felt far too big inside his mouth to form even the most basic of words.
Alexander took a step closer, stooping until his head was at the same level as his prisoner’s. “They assure me that they have left you with your tongue,” he said, “so I can only assume that you are unwilling to speak to me. I’m not asking you much, you know, only your name. You can at least tell me that. At least I’ll know you can speak and I’m not just standing here, wasting my time.”
Tom fumbled as his tongue stuck first to the roof of his mouth and then to his bottom lip, only a barely audible hiss escaping his lips.
“Yes, go on,” Alexander said, leaning in closer to make out the words. This time Tom was able to form his lips into position even though little sound escaped them.
Alexander nodded his head slowly before standing to his full height. “I only hope your mother never hears you using language like that,” he said, “but then, I suppose she wouldn’t do now, would she, seeing as how I killed her.”
With a swift and purposeful movement, Alexander turned and brought his heel down hard against Tom’s broken leg, the displaced fracture becoming compound as clean white bone tore through the skin, fresh blood trickling to a pool that collected around his foot. He had barely enough strength left to react to the assault, let alone cry out in pain. Instead, he focussed on his mother’s voice, soothing and peaceful, wishing him pleasant dreams.
Alexander regained his posture and once again began to pace. Tom could no longer hold his head up long enough to follow his path.
“Just your name, that was all I wanted,” Alexander continued. “Now look at what you've made me do, just for the price of your name. I’m sorry it came to this, really, I am, but I thought you understood. I will ask the questions and you will answer them, honestly and promptly, or you will be punished. Honestly and promptly, that’s all. I can’t emphasise those two words enough. We have only a little time left, you see, you and I, and I so didn’t want it to come to this. Honestly and promptly, that is all, so I will ask you again. Tell me your name.”
Alexander stopped midstride and waited, straining to make out words from the sounds scraping their way from the boy’s throat, trying in vain to piece them together into that one word which could be described as his name. After a moment’s pause, he regained his stride.
“They wanted to use the Droca weed, you know,” he continued. “Force you to speak to us, but I instructed them not to. I believed that you could be spoken to, reasoned with like before, and I still do. All you need is the proper persuasion.”
Alexander stopped at the table and scanned its contents. Gone were the maps and plans, replaced by an assortment of curved and serrated blades, clamps, pliers, and chains, arranged neatly in a line. He picked up a piece and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it closely before returning it to the table and finding another.
“It doesn’t really matter you know,” he said, “whether you answer my questions or not. We already know who the saboteurs are, by face if not by name, and it’s only a matter of time before they sit before me as you do now. You only harm yourself by not speaking to me, do you understand that? Harm yourself because there is nothing that you could tell me that I do not already know, apart from, of course, your name. If you would tell me only that, then I would ask you no more.”
Again, Alexander waited for a sound, a whisper in the darkness, but as before nothing came. “I see, and I thank you,” Alexander said. “If you are not here to speak to me, then I must assume that you can only be here for my amusement, and my boy, I promise you I intend to have a lot of fun with you.”
At long last, Alexander had decided on the instrument with which he would begin his games, and before the light of dawn could bring a glimmer of redemption, not even the soothing note of his mother’s lullaby could hold back the screaming from within Tom’s head.
IX
It was mid-morning before Alexander ordered the body of the prisoner removed from his trailer. He had eventually been allowed to pass out, but his heart was still beating and they would attend to his wounds. Though he had said nothing more, Alexander had resisted the urge to kill him, still intending on using him to learn the identity of the saboteurs.
Alexander arranged to have his personal items moved to an adjacent trailer while his trailer was cleaned, though he doubted that anyone could ever fully get rid of the smell. The blood, he didn’t mind; it fuelled his passions during the proceedings, but the excrement was a different matter. He could never fully take his mind from it if he were to use the room for other reasons. He was a man of habit, a place for everything and everything in its place, and torture and death needed a room all to themselves.
This second Road Train was very similar to the first, perhaps a little brighter in the décor, but fundamentally the same. He had preserved his large table and that was enough to call it home. Besides, it wouldn’t be long before he had a new residence to call his own. These little setbacks had slowed him down, but they were still on track, and when the history books were written, who would remember a few lost days on the road? Before long, he had given the order to set off again and eventually they were under way.
Peter and Catrina had hidden themselves away until the early hours of the morning, biding their time until it was safe to return. They had managed to insert themselves into a larger group camped on the west side of the road, offering to help gather up the tents as the sun rose. They were shocked to learn that the army had been ordered to hold position and would not be marching that day.
They were concerned at the delay, as was everyone around them, but before long, the people were preparing breakfast and enjoying the reprieve from the constant exertion. The soldiers seemed to grow in number, but they still didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular.
Conrad's wound was dressed and hidden below his overcoat. He had joined a group further north, Peter having advised them to spend the day separately. A suspicious wound could not be easily explained away and they couldn't risk being captured together.
Peter was the only one that seemed to see it, to see how dangerous the
ir plans were, how close they had come to being captured or killed. A flesh wound one day is a head shot the next, or worse, to be found alive and tortured until all of their secrets were revealed. He had tried to express his fears the night before, but the others wouldn't listen. They never listened. They would continue doing their own thing until it got them all killed, him along with them.
It rained again later that day and night, a torrential downpour that soaked them to the skin, but the following morning was dry and fresh. A cool breeze from the east was enough to wake them, but not a wind to chill their bones. That morning there was anticipation, whispers of an announcement, mutterings of an event so important it was sufficient to shadow the tales of the fires and explosions. For the second morning in a row, the armies did not march.
Morning rapidly became lunchtime and then mid-afternoon, but they were no further southward than they had been the day before. Peter was again at Catrina’s side, keeping his promise, and he could see that she too was worried. She wouldn’t admit to it; in fact she would barely acknowledge him at all, but he could see it in her eyes, a fleeting glimpse of her own mortality.
Peter had already assumed that the soldiers knew who they were, perhaps even where they were, and they were coming for them. That was what the announcement was to be, a celebration of their capture and later the execution.
Later, he failed to feel solace in the fact that he was only partly right.
As the afternoon dragged into evening, they had the impression of huge fires constructed at the head of the convoy, great funeral pyres saluting the sky. Each was lit around nightfall, drawing the hordes of people towards them like moths to a flame. This was to be the announcement, the event to which the whole day had been built, and they would be dammed if they weren’t going to get a good seat.
Unable to resist the tide, Peter and the others were carried along with them, dragged forward to the front of the convoy. Though they were a hundred metres away, they could still feel the heat from the roaring blaze.
They had a better view now. From where they were amongst the crowd, they could see two fires, each taller that the Road Trains and reaching gracefully into the sky. Between the two, a gantry had been erected, and upon that was placed the chair, or perhaps it should have been called a throne.
Though it had taken all day to organise, Alexander was pleased with the construction. To be accepted as leader, he had to be a showman, after all. When the pages of history were written, he would be remembered not by his words, but by his deeds, and now he wanted to give them something to write about.
When the intensity of apprehension in the crowd was sufficient to meet the intensity of the fires, Alexander made his grand entrance. With bold strides, he trod the length of the gantry and back again before taking his seat, greeting the crowd with waves and mock bows as they cheered his arrival. Peter and Catrina were half crushed in the surge as those at the back strained to get closer, fearful of missing a single word or gesture. With a movement of his hand, Alexander bade the crowd to be still and silent, and Peter and Catrina were allowed to breathe again.
“People of Island City,” he began, rising from his chair, “the road has been long and hard upon us all. We all knew that it would not be easy, but I never would have believed that some of those amongst you would have purposefully tried to hinder us in our great mission. And yet, each night as I lie sleeping, I hear of destruction, of shootings. I hear of men that would serve under me being beaten, injured, and killed, and I cannot help but feel responsible. I say to you, my people, that it ends, now, this night!”
There was a cheer as Alexander threw his arms aloft. Though he had so far told them little that they didn’t already know, the combination of lights and gestures had whipped the crowd into a frenzy.
As the cheers died down, Alexander bade the crippled body of Tom to be brought before him. He was still breathing, but he no longer had the strength or inclination to bear his own weight.
As the crowd watched in muffled silence, a second chair was placed upon the gantry and the broken body of the prisoner was strapped to it. The bonds were tight about his arms and legs, but pain barely had any meaning for him anymore. As the crowd continued to watch, it was Alexander himself who tied the final strap around the boy’s mouth, securing his head tightly to the back of the chair so that all the crowd would have chance to see his face.
“This,” Alexander continued, his words intermixed with a combination of flamboyant gestures, “is one of those people. He has willingly admitted to me that he was responsible for the murder of two brave soldiers under my command, and for this, he knows the penalty.”
There was another surge as those in the crowd scrambled to get a piece of the traitor, eager to spill his blood and cast him into the fire. Catrina stood transfixed at the sight of the battered and beaten Tom. He was no longer recognisable as the man that she had travelled with just a few weeks before.
“Now, people,” Alexander continued, “I hear your cries for revenge, but guilty as he is, he has not acted alone. He wept only this morning as he knelt before me, begging for forgiveness for his crimes, for mercy in his punishment, and both of these I have seen fit to grant him.”
There was uproar from the crowd, apparently denied their pound of flesh, but Alexander had not finished.
“Wait,” Alexander ordered. “As he knelt before me, he admitted to me that he was not behind these atrocities. He does not wish to harm his own people; he was merely influenced by the actions of others. In return for the mercy that we, his people, can offer him, he has willingly given me the names of those that ordered him, forced him to do what he did. It is these people that must be brought to justice, these people that have orchestrated this reign of terror upon us, and I say that it is these people that must pay the price.”
Catrina had barely heard a word of what Alexander had said. She had the sensation of Peter on her left, pulling forcibly on her arm, but in her mind, she was slipping away.
He would have been six next summer, her Daniel. Six years old. They grew up so fast, her babies. It felt like only yesterday when she had held him in her arms for the first time. No, not yesterday.
Yesterday was a bad day.
Maybe tomorrow.
Who was that man with her Daniel, so far away from her, from a mother’s loving embrace?
“My officers have already been given the names and descriptions of all those that are responsible for the recent attacks against our people, and it is only a matter of time before they are apprehended and brought to justice,” Alexander informed the crowd.
They grow up so fast, already a man.
“I have reason to believe that they are out there now,” Alexander continued, “amongst you, claiming to be your friends and allies whilst all the time they are looking for the opportunity to kill you in your sleep or stab you in the back.”
Why were they keeping him from her?
“If these people will reveal themselves now to my officers, they will also be shown mercy if they repent of their crimes.”
He would have been six next summer.
“If you know, or suspect you know, who these people are, make them known now to my officers and your actions will be rewarded.”
Would have been.
“I promised you, my people,” Alexander said at last, “that this would end this night, a promise I will keep, but I must also say to you this. Whether it is this wretch or those he calls his master, this night justice will be served!”
Would have been. Those three words tore through her heart like a knife, a wound that could never be healed. She had been struck the greatest blow that she would ever receive, the loss of a child, her children. Yet here was her Daniel and she could still save him, a man, six next summer. She wouldn’t let it happen again.
Peter held tightly to her arm, but he barely had the strength to hold her back as she attempted to fight her way through the crowds towards her son. He couldn’t help but notice the strange looks that
those around were giving her, and waited with baited breath for the first shouts for the guards.
Impossibly, he caught Conrad’s gaze across the crowd, eyes locking for a mere fraction of a second and then passing. They saw the same terror and revelation in each other’s eyes. They both knew that Tom was already dead, whether they revealed themselves or not, and if they stepped forward or were brought forward, they too would share his fate. They could only assume that what Alexander had said had been correct, that Tom had been broken and that the noose was closing rapidly around them, beginning to draw them in. Seeing the state that he was in, what else could he have done?
“My patience is short,” Alexander continued, removing a pistol from within the confines of his coat. He carefully checked that it was loaded and drew back the hammer in full sight of the crowd before levelling it against the boy’s cranium.
The crowd was in a minor state of panic as hordes of soldiers strode through it, responding to the calls and cries of civilians willing to cast their friends and families in front of Alexander for the possibility of reward. Every petty rivalry and neighbourly dispute was brought to mind as people saw the eyes of traitors and murderers all around them.
It didn’t matter how many there were, or how long it took. Each name or face brought to their attention would be questioned, interrogated, or executed entirely on Alexander’s whim. He had been forthright in his conviction that there would be no more attacks, and he would stand by it. History was judging him on his actions, after all. If he were seen to be weak now, they would never follow him later, when they were most needed. Fear would only take them so far.
As the guards fought to maintain order within the crowd, the first cries went up from Peter’s right, drawing their attention. In the commotion, he had not realised that his grip on Catrina’s arm was slipping and others were attempting to pull her away from him and claim their reward as they turned her over to the guards. It took the last of his strength to pull her to his side, slipping his arm tightly about her waist where she continued to struggle as he fought his way backwards through the crowd.
“Mine, civilian,” he screamed as what seemed like a hundred arms reached to try and remove her from his grasp. His worn and tattered uniform was barely recognisable beneath the weeks of mud and rain that covered him, but the pistol in his right hand demanded more respect. “And I shall take the reward.” He was only a reflex away from pulling the trigger.
There was a roar from behind the gantry as nearly a hundred soldiers fired their weapons in unison into the air. Thankfully for Peter, it was sufficient to draw the attention of the crowd.
Alexander spoke with determination, fully aware that the eyes of history were upon him. “I speak now to offer this young man a last chance at life,” he said. “He has willingly admitted to following the misguided orders of others and he is prepared to answer for his crimes, but he asked for mercy and I was prepared to offer it to him. If those that have led him so far from the path are as great as they claim, they too would throw themselves upon my mercy and spare this young man they have abused so cruelly.”
There was a moment’s silence, a theatrical pause as Alexander scanned the crowd, waiting for the true villains to make themselves known. Friends could betray friends, family betray family, but someone who truly knew the wretch before him could not let him die without the faintest of reactions, and he was in the best position to see it.
“However,” Alexander continued, “if they are the cowards that I suspect them to be, I will see that they are hunted down like skeets, and I promise my people this. My justice will be harsh that day.
“I offer you the count of five until sentence is passed.”
“One,” he shouted, beginning the count.
For the moment, the crowd was fixated by the events in the stage, giving Peter the opportunity to edge away from those around him. Catrina was still fighting against him, trying in vain to get closer to the doomed man, but Peter was still the stronger.
“Two.”
All around him, soldiers and guards were escorting terrified faces towards the front of the crowd where they would soon find Alexander’s justice to be even harsher than he had warned. So far, Peter had not seen any of his companions amongst them, but it could only be a matter of time. The soldiers had their names and descriptions, after all.
“Three.”
Peter again found Conrad’s gaze across the crowd, more troubled and terrified than before. This time they held each other’s eyes for longer, pleading with each other to do something, to do anything to take them all away from that place.
“Four.”
Peter had never truly been a part of the group, having never travelled with the Road Trains, but even he could see that they were more than friends, more than a community, an extended family travelling the roads as one. Hence, it was strange that later, he alone could understand the why of Conrad’s actions.
Conrad had only managed to mouth the words “it was me” before civilian and then soldier alike descended on him, driving him to the ground with a series of blows and kicks. Alexander took a moment to look up from his objective, to see the bloodied body of Conrad held aloft on many arms, and he offered the crowd a smile.
“No mercy,” Alexander whispered to himself before announcing, “Five.”
The noise of the shot was so loud that few believed that it had come all the way from the gantry. The crowd was stunned initially, but before long, the first cheer was heard, then another and another until every man and woman was screaming and shouting as one.
Peter closed his hand tightly around Catrina’s mouth as she herself began to scream, but not with the pleasure of those around her. He felt sick as he joined in and cheered along with the crowd, wishing that they would turn their gaze away from him and back to the gantry and allow him to make his escape. It seemed like an eternity, but Catrina eventually went limp in his arms, the screams becoming sobs and eventually silence as he dragged and then carried her away.
The force of the impact had knocked the chair onto its side, taking the boy’s lifeless body along with it, the bindings so tight that it was unable to fall limp where it lay. They watched now as Alexander returned to his chair while before him three guards gathered up the body and cast it casually into the nearest fire.
Alexander had done all that he had set out to do. He had not only executed his prisoner, which was fun enough in itself, but he now had a sufficient collection of suspects that odds dictated should contain at least some of the other saboteurs that had been disturbing his sleep. Also, and perhaps most of all, he had now stirred up enough fear and paranoia amongst the general populace that they would follow him into fire if, no when, he gave the order.
X
Slight as she was, he could carry her no further. That night, it was impossible to leave the crowds to the relative safety of the woodland beside the road, and instead Peter had to join in with the festivities surrounding the fires. Everyone was keeping a cautious watch on everyone else and any unusual activities were being reported to the ever increasing numbers of soldiers.
He had seen nothing of Simon or Donald since he had escaped from the frenzy at the gantry. He was unsure if they had been able to escape the witch-hunt that the day had become. If they were still free, he had no way to contact them now, not with everyone on the alert and having their descriptions.
The sensation that he had felt earlier, of running out of time, had grown steadily with each step, weighing on his shoulders more than Catrina ever could. His mind was screaming for him to run, hide, and escape, but with the woman in his arms, it had already been impossible to avoid drawing attention to himself.
The fire was warm and partly inviting as he laid Catrina beside it, the light casting shadows across her limp body that aged her far beyond her years. Peter brushed the hair from her face, shocked to discover that she looked more drawn now than she had when he had first seen her, that day beneath the Regent’s palace when his life was turne
d upside down.
He sat beside her, casually declining the offers of food and drink that came his way, smiling when revellers recounted stories of those they had handed over to the guards, traitors all of them.
Sometime after midnight, Peter fell asleep, troubled dreams denying him any real rest. When the first rays of morning woke him, Catrina was already gone.