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  "Well," said Bilik. "We've only got to survive twenty more years." Perhaps, the Defenders' reputation for toughness seemed overblown. He’d met the combat qualifications when he matched the instructor sent to test him. In fact, he was sure he could have beaten the instructor. That was one of the benefits of being female and raising a wriggler. "It'll be figured out by the time we arrive at Kota."

  Defenders tough? I don't think so.

  "This conversation is making me uneasy." Cha KinLaat's hologram collapsed into a pinprick of light and disappeared. "I'd better check the external monitoring system focused on Kota. They're wearing out faster than anticipated. It's difficult to replace them, and for what? Nothing ever happens out here."

  Chapter 12

  Oxbow

  Taylor placed a full ammo magazine on the flapping sheets of paper that lay on the weathered picnic table.

  In spite of the sun, the April breeze coming up the cliff from the Rocky River below had a cool edge to it. A hawk screamed as it circled above the valley.

  Shel Weitzman and John Wylie faced each other across the table representing different groups within the Clan.

  "Yes, we’ve got people who know how to shoot." Weitzman ran fingers through his thinning hair. "When do we get ammo?"

  Taylor pointed to the list. "These are their guns?"

  "Yes. What about the ammo?" Weitzman frowned.

  Taylor again ignored the question. "We need two squads, militia, to escort your people during their move into the valley.”

  "What about the ammo?" Weitzman said. "Do we get it?"

  "You'll get ammo." Taylor hesitated. "For defense only. No one carries a gun inside the community. That's a Clan rule."

  "Y'think you can make that stick?" Wylie asked.

  "D’you want people carrying guns when they're tired and hungry, or when the pressure's on?" Taylor’s eyes flicked back and forth. "If you can't agree to this, no ammo." He sighed. "Look, too many people have died already." He had a feeling of dread like he was on the edge of falling into a bloody abyss.

  "Why should we give up our weapons?" Weitzman asked.

  Taylor’s lips tightened. "If you want ammo and if you want to be part of this Clan, you'll agree to it. Only the militia carries guns.”

  No one spoke. Wylie and Weitzman exchanged glances.

  "I see," Wylie said. "Your ammo, your rules."

  "Yes." Taylor's voice left no room for compromise.

  "Some won’t like it.” Weitzman shook his head. "I'll explain it to my people. Maybe it'll work out.”

  Taylor looked up at Weitzman. "I'd like to talk to the guy with the backhoe. Can you send him over?"

  "Klaus Stolz?" Weitzman said. "Why?"

  "To build defenses around the Oxbow."

  "Ah, I see.” Weitzman's frown lifted partially.

  Taylor turned to John Wylie. "Next. Find out who has gardening tools, seeds and whatever." He pointed at Weitzman. "If anyone has horse-drawn farm implements, bring them. We're going to need them."

  "Okay," Weitzman said. "I'll check, too.”

  "We've got to get seed in the ground and soon. Our food will only last for a month or so.”

  #

  Carp from the river, fixed Cajun style by Marie and Frannie, was Taylor’s afternoon meal.

  Afterwards, a frowning Weitzman collared Taylor. "The south entrance to the Oxbow is wide open. There’s nothing to stop anyone from coming in.”

  "Put militia at both entrances until we get a proper gate built," Taylor said.

  "A truck could roll right through our foot militia," Weitzman waved his hands. “We need a barrier of some kind.”

  "You’re right. Talk to the backhoe guy," Taylor said. “Have him drag something over there that’ll stop a truck.” He cleared his throat. "Next, food inventory. Do you have it?"

  "Not yet." Weitzman scratched an emerging beard. "We're okay on grain for the horses. I guess everyone stocked up because they expected prices to go up.”

  "What kind of grain?" Taylor hadn't thought about food for the horses; it seemed to him that they’d eat grass or hay.

  "Oh, oats and cracked corn," Weitzman said. "There's feed for our other farm animals.”

  "What kind of animals?" Taylor asked. "How many?"

  "Let me see." Weitzman paused. "I think there's six cows, four goats, three pigs and two flocks of chickens."

  "I see." Maybe, Taylor thought, things aren't so bad after all. The weather’s warming up. We could substitute grass for grain. Maybe we don’t have a food shortage after all.

  #

  Toward evening, Taylor visited the Oxbow. Its shelter was an open structure with a metal roof that had sandstone walls on two sides. It had a fireplace with a built-in grill and warming oven. Beside the shelter was a large yellow Ford tractor, equipped with a bucket and a backhoe. It sat next to two hay wagons loaded with boxes and bundles. On top of one wagon was a four-post mahogany bed.

  "Whose bed is that?" Taylor pointed.

  "That belongs to Shirley O'Connor," Weitzman said. "She insisted on bringing it. It's a family heirloom.”

  "Jeez. Why?" Taylor asked.

  "I just found out about it. It's causing bad feelings. Others left valuables behind. She's got her husband, Jack, wrapped around her little finger. He can't say no to her."

  "Point her out to me.”

  "The woman near the fireplace." Weitzman nodded his head.

  "Mrs. O'Connor," Taylor called in a voice honed at noisy construction sites.

  Conversation faded into silence.

  "Yes?" Shirley O’Connor was statuesque blond, with athletic shoulders and a long graceful neck.

  "Why did you bring such a fine piece of furniture?" Taylor pointed to the bed. "It'll just get ruined outside."

  "It won't get ruined." Shirley looked down her long nose at him. "It’ll be in here, under cover and protected."

  "Well, that's a problem. It's too big for the shelter with this many people.” Taylor smiled innocently. “If you want to give up your share of the shelter and use the bed outside..."

  Several people chuckled.

  "What? Why should my bed go outside?"

  "There's not enough room for you and the bed."

  "What right do you have to tell me what I can or cannot do? Does this shelter have your name on it? That bed has been in my family for three generations. I'm not leaving it to a gang of thugs." She had the nasal pitch of a New Yorker. "It's staying in this shelter with me. And that's final." As her voice rose, she put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot.

  "Fine." Taylor’s jaw tightened. "Who d'you propose shall sleep outside so you can have more room than anyone else?"

  She opened her mouth to reply. The man at her side nudged her with his elbow. She gasped and shut her mouth.

  "Mrs. O'Connor, take a good look around. Everyone is going to sleep in this shelter, everyone will have shelter from rain, and we can each store a few possessions.”

  "But--" Shirley said.

  "If you don't like the arrangements, Mrs. O’Connor," Taylor said loudly. "You’re free to leave."

  "Honey, I'll cover the bed with plastic. We can store it under the trees," the man said quietly.

  Shirley’s eyes snapped toward her husband, hard and flashing. "Jack, shut up. I’m not sleeping on the ground." Her voice rose. "Why do we have such primitive accommodations when he gets to sleep in comfort in the Nature Center?" She pointed a brightly painted fingernail at Taylor. "Well?"

  "For your information, no one sleeps in the Nature Center. It's too close to the road and can’t be protected." Taylor lowered his voice. "You're welcome to stay on the Hill and enjoy our palatial accommodations. We've got room under our star-view canopies filled with fresh air and convivial company." He referred to the clear plastic sheet awnings.

  Several people laughed. They had seen the living quarters on the Hill. This shelter was better.

  Jack put his arm around Shirley and whispered in her ear. She started to sn
iffle. He guided her away from the now-silent crowd and walked her to the nearby trees.

  "Thanks, Taylor, for taking the heat," Weitzman said. "I should've done that."

  "If that's the most difficult thing I've got to do, then it's going to be a walk in the park." Taylor shrugged. The memory of the dead bodies in his home flashed into his mind. He turned to Weitzman. "Give me a rundown on your gardeners. What did they bring?"

  Weitzman pulled out a list. "Here it is. We found a small plow, so we'll have to jury-rig a horse collar to use our horses." He looked up. "Here's the seed list.”

  "Good," Taylor said. "I'll send John Wylie's people down tomorrow morning to join them. Who's in charge?"

  "Er, I think it'll be Phelps.”

  "Fine." Taylor looked at his list. "Is Stolz around? I still haven’t caught up with him and need to talk to him about using his backhoe."

  "He's over there." Weitzman pointed to a tall, blond man.

  #

  "No problem." Klaus Stolz nodded. "I can dig a ditch ten, twelve feet deep, as long as I don't hit rock. D’you really want to cut the road? That'll make it more difficult to move stuff into the Oxbow.”

  "Right. Start with a ditch from the edge of the road to the water." Taylor knew Weitzman was uncomfortable about the open road into the Oxbow. "We need deep ditches from the end of the lake up to the edge of the road." He pointed to where the Rocky River had carved a U-shaped lake in the valley, with cliffs sixty feet high on its outside bank. At each end of the oxbow lake, narrow gaps provided access to the land inside, which consisted of fifteen acres of flat land with two baseball diamonds surrounded by Scotch pines.

  "Sort of like a medieval moat?" Stolz pointed to the thin ribbon of cracked blacktop passing through the one hundred yard wide gap at each end of the oxbow lake and the river.

  "Exactly.” Taylor stroked his chin.

  "What about the road itself?"

  "Block it with a row of logs as a starter. Later, we’ll put a drawbridge over the ditch."

  "The same thing on the river side of the road?"

  "Yes," Taylor said. "Can you dig a ditch on each side?"

  "Sure."

  "How long will it take?"

  "How wide do you want each ditch?" Stolz asked.

  Taylor got down to the details. It was comforting in a way, because it was something he was used to doing.

  Chapter 13

  Focus

  Dave Luken glared over the cherry wood desk in the office that had belonged to the former manager of JB’s. "What d'you mean, they’re moving outta their farms?"

  Dust shadows and carpet indentations were ghostly evidence of previous filing cabinets and other office paraphernalia. As he leaned forward, his high-backed chair squeaked. "Well?" Luken now led the warehouse gang.

  Bubba Eaton shuffled his feet. "They’ve been loading stuff onto wagons and taking it down to the Metropark."

  "Where exactly? In the park?"

  "I dunno. Mebbe the hill." Bubba avoided Luken's gaze.

  "Tomorrow we're going back. And Bubba, you're gonna scout ‘em out." Luken banged his fist on the desk. "Got it?"

  Bubba examined the floor. "I got it, Dave.”

  #

  The next morning, dawn brought a low sky the color of hammered pewter. A cold wind out of the northeast blustered around the edge of the warehouse.

  Luken chivied his men into two rusted red dump trucks. "C’mon." He scowled. "Move it."

  "This sucks," came a voice from the back of a truck. "Do we hafta go out today?"

  Luken stared hard. “What was that?”

  No one said anything.

  "If you don't like it here," Luken said. “Piss off."

  No one spoke.

  "Let's go."

  The trucks bumped and lurched through side streets of Berea. The few people about had vanished. On Barrett Road, the trucks stopped on the section without houses. Trees and undergrowth hid the nearby Rocky River Valley.

  Luken called, "Bubba, it's scouting time."

  "Yeah, sure, Dave." Bubba jumped down from the truck.

  "I want to know where they are and how many. Be back here in an hour. And stay outa sight. Got it?"

  "Sure thing, Dave, I got it." Bubba took a breath and trotted off. It was less than a quarter mile to the park.

  Bubba reached the Metropark’s entrance and was halfway down its road to the Rocky River Valley when he heard a chainsaw bray into life and then drop to a quiet rumble. A saw revved and groaned into work.

  Someone’s working in the Oxbow section, he thought. Even closer than the hill. He listened for a while and heard a diesel engine running. Sounds like a regular construction job, he thought. Had to be a lot of people; it had to be them. That meant loot, and mebbe even women. This has to be the info that Luken wants. He headed back at a run.

  Bubba ran out of breath going up hill, so he walked the rest of the way back to the trucks parked on Barrett Road.

  "Dave," Bubba said. “They’re just down the road, in the Oxbow section, lots of them, working. They won’t expect us.”

  "How come it took you so long?" Luken’s hand dropped to his gun. What were you doin'? Pullin' your pud?"

  "Aw, Dave, you know how it is when you're scouting--"

  "Time these dudes learned who runs things around here,” Luken said. “To the park. Nice and easy-like."

  At the Metropark entrance, Luken ordered his men out of the trucks. "We're going in on foot," he called. "Column one, on the right side of the road. Column two, on the left. Move out." He’d seen enough war movies to know how it was done. "As soon as you see them, open fire. Got it?"

  His men mumbled assent.

  "Let's go." The men marched down the narrow, curving road overhung with branches. They hit a stride that had an almost rhythmic cadence, thudding and jangling along.

  High-pitched voices, children, began to shout. The chain saws stopped. Deeper, male voices called distantly.

  "Shit," Luken said. "We've been spotted. Move it, double time."

  As they rounded a corner, Luken saw a rubber-tired front-end loader--bucket raised--backing away, engine racing. A solitary rifleman stood with his back to the retreating machine, rifle raised. Freshly fallen logs lined the roadway.

  "Get him." Luken yelled and fired.

  Simultaneously, from behind the logs, guns boomed.

  “It’s a fuckin’ ambush.” Luken dove for the ground and rolled off the road into the ditch.

  #

  Shortly after the shooting ended, Taylor arrived on the run, along with Chris Kuchinski and other militia. "Well, well," he said, breathing heavily. "What’ve you got here?"

  "These scumbags attacked us," Stolz said. Out of eleven prisoners, nine were wounded. A dozen lay dead.

  "Doesn't look like you need our help," Taylor said.

  Grim-faced men surrounded the silent prisoners, guns at the ready. Weitzman leaned over the militiaman stretched out on a battered picnic bench and cut open his shirt. The left side of his chest was shattered, and as he gasped, frothy blood and air bubbled in and out.

  Weitzman’s long face sagged and he mopped the wound for a moment. He sighed. There were tears in his eyes as he glanced at the two workers who sat on a log waiting for medical attention. Blood saturated their clothing.

  "The kids warned us," Jack O'Connor said. “So, we were ready for them. They didn’t expect we’d be waiting.”

  "Who's he?" Taylor pointed to Weitzman's patient. "What happened?"

  "That's Hauer." O'Connor shook his head. "He was protecting Stolz. He's hurt bad.”

  Weitzman sighed. "He's got a major chest injury. It'd be touch and go even in a hospital. I'm just a dentist. I’ve got some morphine with my gear. All I can do is ease his pain.” His voice cracked. "He's not going to make it."

  Taylor turned to the captives. “Who’s in charge?”

  No one spoke. Eyes flickered.

  Taylor followed their glances to an uninjured captive, a big mu
scular man who stared steadfastly at the ground. “You,” Taylor said. “In the camo jacket, what’s your name?”

  The man said nothing, not raising his head.

  Taylor strode over to him, followed by Chris. He pointed at the man and nodded to Chris who poked him on the shoulder with the barrel of her Colt rifle.

  The man waved off the rifle, glanced up. “Cut it out.”

  “What's your name?" Taylor almost snarled. "Where d'you come from? On your feet."

  "I'm Dave Luken." The man rose slowly to his feet. "I live in Berea." He glanced around as though looking to leave.

  "Why did you attack us?" Taylor took a deep breath.

  The man called Luken said nothing and looked away.

  "He asked you a question." Chris's mouth got thin. “Answer him.”

  "Fuck you, bitch."

  Chris whipped the rifle's barrel up between the Luken’s legs. He screamed and slumped, holding his crotch.

  "When he asks, you answer." Chris's mouth was razor thin.

  "You fucking cunt," Luken said. He spat at Chris.

  Chris swung the rifle butt up into Luken's face. He staggered backward and collapsed to the ground, both hands to his mouth.

  Chris stood over him, gun ready. "Want more?"

  "Chris--" Weitzman said in a reproachful tone.

  Taylor stepped forward. “Leave her alone. He got what he deserved. For what they’ve done, they've forfeited all rights." He pointed to Luken. "Like the lady said, I asked you a question.”

  Chris raised her gun.

  "You ambushed us two days ago in the woods." Luken spat blood. "We were returning the favor."

  A ghost of a cold smile flickered across Taylor’s lips. “Looks like your return favor didn’t work.”

  #

  Over the next hour, Taylor learned from the other prisoners, the gang used JB’s Warehouse, which was now lightly guarded. Satisfied he had no more questions, he turned toward Chris. “I guess we’ll take their weapons and turn them loose--“

  "No way." John Phelps stepped forward. "These hoodlums are the ones who attacked our farms, killed people and burned us out. Ted and Sandy Callioux are still missing--"

  “They’re the bastards who killed Marty Colagrossi and raped Jenny Pokopac,” Wylie’s face became flushed. “They’re not walking away. Not a chance.”