Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (76 page)

"Kill a town?" asked Erik with acid in his voice.
 
Dad's dead because of that psycho.
 
Mom's going to take a long time to come out of whatever place she's in.
 

"Or start a kingdom."

Erik thought about Ted's words.
 
The scholar in him knew Ted was right: nobles in the middle ages all across Europe weren't noble because God waved a hand and decreed it.
 
They were just lucky to be the descendants of brutal warriors who took power at the point of a sword when Rome fell and law and order became a memory.

"How many people were in prison across the state—across the country—when the lights went out?" asked Brin quietly.
 
"How many survived?"
 
She shook her head.

"No, forget about the prison—there are plenty of opportunistic assholes out there
not
in prison.
 
How many of them were only law-abiding before the collapse because they didn't want to go to jail?
 
When everything fell apart, it would be like…like letting a starving dog off the leash outside a chicken farm.
 
It's only a matter of time before the dog catches a meal.
 
And then what?"

"Farmer needs a gun," Ted observed.
 
"The people need a leader."

"I see your point."
 
Erik sighed.
 
"Both of you."

"So?" asked Ted.
 
"The people are waiting."

Erik craned his stiff neck to look over his shoulder.
 
"Awww, shit."
 
The recently cleared parade ground was packed with bedraggled, hopeful faces, most of them standing around staring at him.
 

"That is
definitely
not fair."

Brin squeezed his hand.
 
"They cleared all the loot out so they could see you.
 
No one told them to."

Erik looked back out over the water, letting his eyes trace the Vermont shoreline south until it met the intimidating mass of land and trees called Mount Independence.
 
He'd hiked over there with his family every summer growing up.
 
He knew every trail and path on that promontory, all the best spots to lean between the trees on the cliff face and look at the fort across the water.

"I always wanted to live over there," he said softly.

"The lady that's looking after your mom—Kelly—she's the widow of the dairy farmer who lives just the other side of—what did you call it?"

"Independence.
 
That's Independence," Erik said, pointing.
 
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing west.
 
"The one behind me is Mount Defiance.
 
The Americans wanted to put canon up there during the Revolution to take the fort."

Ted whistled.
 
"That's a hell of a climb to drag those two-wheeled bastards without a road."
 
He turned back to the lake.
 
"Anyway, Kelly lives over there.
 
She has cows and fresh milk—she's willing to bring food across if we can help her get things back in order.
 
Spike did a real number on her farm."

"How did you find all that out?"
 
Erik asked with a lopsided grin.
 

"I…uh, well, I mean…she—"

"Are you blushing?" asked Erik.
 
"You are!"

"Fuck you."

"You're stalling," Brin whispered over Ted's embarrassed stuttering.
 
She squeezed his hand.

Erik sighed.
 
"All I wanted was to make it up here and sit by my parents' house, in chairs like these, holding your hand, and watching the sunrise over the lake."

Brin sighed.
 
"It's a good dream.
 
And we can still have that."

"Well, you'll have to get a new house…"

"Thanks," muttered Erik.
 
"You're a real help, Ted."

"Just doing my part.
 
Duke."

Erik groaned.
 
"Oh come on.
 
Don't start
that
shit again."

"So you'll do it, then?" asked Ted.
 
Erik didn't need to look at him to see the smile on his face.
 
Before Erik could answer, Ted turned toward the parade ground and raised his arms.
 

"He said yes!"

"Damn it, Ted!" Erik hissed.

The ragged cheer that exploded behind him sent a shiver down Erik's spine.
 
He reached out a hand to Ted.
 
"Help me up, you bastard.
 
I can't just sit here while they're all cheering."

With Ted on one side and Brin supporting his other, Erik stood and faced the people.
 
His people.
 
Someone got a weak chant started.
 
"
Dux
…
dux
…
dux
…"

"Are you serious?" Erik asked.
 
"You taught them that?"

Ted cracked a grin, his face a mess of cuts and bruises.
 
"
Dux bellorum,
right?
 
War leader in Latin—that's what you told me back at the Freehold, right?"

"Asshole."

"They love you," Brin marveled.
 
She squeezed his free hand.

"For now," Erik replied.
 
He waved, and the people cheered.
 
"We've got a hard winter ahead of us," he muttered, looking out over the hopeful faces.

Ted chuckled.
 
"That's the old Duke we know and love."

Erik glanced at his friend while the people in the courtyard continued their obscene chanting.
 
"We'll see how happy you are when I announce you're our chief of security.
 
Again."

Ted's smile faded.
 
"Hey, we only have a few people who can fight, and most of them are twice my age.
 
Not much for me to be chief of—”

"Ah, the trials of leadership," answered Erik as he waved to the crowd below.
 
"Ain't that a bitch?"

"So what's the first order, oh wise and merciful Duke Erik," quipped Brin, hugging him gently around the waist.

"Ow.
 
Easy on the battle wounds, there."
 
She squeezed harder.
 
"
Ow!
 
All right, all right."
 
Erik took in a deep breath and surveyed the fort.
 
The fire in the gate house had been put out, but the smoke lingered and the structure was still hot.
 

"First thing we have to do is get that fire 100% out," he said, gesturing at the gatehouse.
 
"If that thing burns, we'll lose a lot of living space and it'll compromise the integrity of the fort itself."

"Living space?" asked Brin.

"Yeah, that's the old enlisted men's barracks.
 
You don't think we're going to live in what's left of the town, do you?
 
We're going to move as many people as we can inside the fort.
 
There's not that many survivors left, unfortunately.
 
I think we'll all fit.
 
We may have to modify some of the buildings a bit…"

He waved again to the crowd, setting off a new round of applause and cheering.
 

"God, they're desperate aren't they?"

"Yep," answered Ted.
 
He raised his rifle in the air and the noise intensified.
 
"And thankful."

"They need to eat."
 
Erik looked at the red-tiled roof of the gunpowder storage building on the east wall.
 

"Everyone," he called out, his voice echoing across the parade ground.
 
He raised both arms, wincing at the effort.
 
"Everyone calm down, okay?"
 
Eventually silence returned to the ancient fort.

"Thank you for placing your trust in me.
 
I don't deserve it—"

"Bullshit!" someone called out from down below.
 
"You killed Spike!"

"
You
did—I merely knocked him out."
 
The crowd thundered in approval.
 
They were wholly unrepentant for what had happened to Spike.
 
Erik glanced at the dark stain on the gravel near the gatehouse, the last reminder of what had been the evil that reigned over this place.
 
He didn't know what happened to the body, or what was left of it—and he cared less.
 
Spike was gone.

"Spike and his crew spent their time stealing and killing, building up a huge stockpile of food and supplies taken from everyone they could reach.
 
It's enough for ten times the number of people he had.
 
I know some of you may be uncomfortable eating the spoils of their raids…but if we don't, the people who died—who gave up this food we now have—they will have died in vain."
 

The crowd grew deathly silent.
 
Erik cleared his throat.
 
"That said, if we're careful, that food can see us all through the winter."

The crowd roared.
 
Several people fell to their knees in tears.

"We'll need volunteers to help our surgeon—"

"Lucy's a
surgeon
now?" asked Brin playfully.

The shouts went out as people raised their arms, offering to help.

"Ted, can you find Lucy and have her meet with the volunteers?"

"On it," Ted replied.
 
He limped toward the stairs.

"Once the wounded have been seen to, let's all get something to eat.
 
I'll need a volunteer to run the kitchens—"

More than one person nominated Maggie.
 
She smiled, the fresh pink scratches on her face in stark contrast to the white hair around her shoulders.
 
She handed her shotgun to the nearest man and retied her pony tail.
 

"I guess it's time to start cooking."
 
The crowd cheered again.

"Maggie, can you handle a big Thanksgiving?" asked Erik.
 
"It's only a week away…anyone have any objections to celebrating a little early?"

The crowd cheered again.

Erik raised his arms.
 
"I want to warn you right now," Erik said, dampening the spirit of the crowd instantly.
 
"There's rough times ahead.
 
We can't just empty the stores in one day.
 
We're going to have to ration what we have to last us all through the winter and into next year.
 
We've had some early snow and I'm no farmer, but I don't think that bodes well for the rest of the season—we'll need to start crops as soon as the spring thaw hits."

"We'll survive," someone said.
 
"We always have."

"That's going to be our motto," Erik replied somberly.
 
"We survive."
 

A knot of people clustered around the base of the flagpole in the center of the courtyard drew his attention.
 
In a few seconds he understood what they were doing.
 

An old, tattered Betsy Ross flag rose to the renewed cheers of the survivors.
 
The threadbare flag reached the top of the pole and snapped in the breeze.
 
It reminded him of the flag he flew atop the Keep, back before the Freehold fell.
 

Brin rested her head against his shoulder and sighed.
 
"We made it."

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MARCUS GRADUATED FROM the University of Delaware and later earned his J.D. at the age of 26.
 
Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a highly over-qualified stock boy, cashier, department manager at a home furnishings store, assistant manager with a national arts and crafts chain, an acting store manager with the same chain, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider-killer extraordinaire, stay-at-home-dad, and writer.