Maddock slipped across a small intersection and into another cramped side street, this one behind the main council building. He crept flush against one wooden wall of a barn-like structure until he came to a long, sliding door. A soft light slipped out from underneath.
Oliver raised his weapon in one hand and found a grip on the metal door handle with the other. He took a deep breath, and then rolled the door open.
A lamp burning some type of improvised oil lit the chamber inside. Two men sat at a folding table, rifles at their feet and a chess board holding their attention. A third man stood nearby with his foot atop a locker and his arms crossed as he watched the match.
Maddock immediately recognized the standing man as Brad Case, the youngest member of the New Winnabow council.
All three turned to the door with smiles, expecting a friendly visitor. Before they fully realized the mistake, a series of sharp pops came from the intruder’s gun.
A forehead shattered, a neck exploded, and a chest turned red from a shot through the heart.
Maddock dimmed the lamp to off, slid the door closed, and returned to the shadows…
…Elizabeth Doss stepped out the back door of the small house she and her husband called home. She had helped build the place with her own hands, starting with searching the scrap of old Winnabow for usable materials, and then hammering, sawing, bolting, and painting alongside the rest of the work party.
In turn, she helped other families raise their homes, turning empty land into a colony.
She wore a heavy sweater knit by a friend who ran a clothing swap on the outskirts of town and walked in boots scavenged from an Army amp; Navy store.
Each morning the councilwoman awoke before her husband and tended to the tiny garden in their back yard where rows of white and yellow flowers struggled to survive. She saw the flowers as a symbol of the community and as such devoted many morning hours to their care.
In the center of her yard stood a round stone well dug by city engineers last spring. It saved her a half-hour round trip to the main community well. She thanked those engineers by growing them fresh tomatoes this past summer, although half the crop fell victim to rabbits (which, in turn, made for good stew).
She admired her flowers for a moment and then moved to the well, a lullaby hummed from her lips.
As she reached for the water pail, a cord pulled taut around her neck, drawing blood as it dug into her skin and coiled across her windpipe.
No air could escape; no sound, no breath. Her life drained way as Vince Caesar dragged her body toward the tool shed next to the back door.
With no one to water them, the flowers of the garden would eventually wither and die…
…A creak in the old staircase caused Carl Bly to pause his ascent in case the noise alerted the house to the intruder. He waited and watched his surroundings through night vision goggles. The home stayed dark and, judging by the nasal snore coming from behind the door at the top of the stairs, his target remained sound asleep.
Bly wondered, if they did wake up, what would they do? Scream? Sound the alarm? Raise the garrison?
None of that could save Gunther Faust. None of that would stop the chain reaction already in motion.
Bly risked another step. No creak this time. He felt it safe to complete his task.
He reached the bedroom door at the top of the stairs and slowly turned the brass knob. The latch clicked and a squeak came from the handle as he opened the door a crack, just enough for the long silencer attached to his pistol to poke into the master bedroom.
Gunther Faust stirred awake, blinked his eyes, and raised his head from the goose-down pillow.
A solitary silenced shot hit the elderly councilman in the head. His brains splattered against the oak bed board, the remaining half of his skull dropped to the pillow, a crimson stream dribbled over the white linens.
His sleeping wife instinctively rolled near and draped an arm across her husband’s dead chest…
…Dawn threatened.
The first streaks of light reached over the eastern horizon and made the drifting clouds glow white and orange.
Below those clouds in the middle of a golden field lived the enclave of New Winnabow. Its wood and brick and stone structures appeared both old and brand new at the same time, like a historical village preserved as a tourist attraction.
The residents stirred awake to a chilly September morning. They left their homes and dormitories to tend to farmland, open stores, and feed livestock. For a few more minutes, New Winnabow remained a serene scene; an image of what could have been.
All of that meant nothing to the eyes watching the town.
Two observers stood atop a rise where the golden field met the forest. Their black and gray bodies blended well with the shadows and the brush. Their nostrils exhaled puffs of white, and dew matted the outer layer of their thick fur coats.
Odin and Tyr did not watch New Winnabow with just their eyes. Their noses and their ears told them far more than vision could. They heard voices call out greetings, garage doors swing open on squeaky hinges, and wagon wheels roll on cobblestone drives. Scents ranging from crude soaps used for washing to the aroma of percolating coffee blends drifted across the field.
They watched and waited…
…Nina Forest crawled across the roof top on her chest. The seal there must have been some poor attempt at tar, flakes of black stuck to her BDUs and the coating smelled like mud.
Regardless, she found a good angle on the target window, raised her sniper rifle, adjusted the scope, and scanned the target area…
…The kitchen flickered with light as Robert Parsons ignited the wall lamps. The sun’s rays started to reach over the town but it remained too dark inside to fumble around in the kitchen without extra light.
He tightened the draw string on his robe, yawned, and opened the ice box. There he found a pitcher of apple cider. Perhaps he would warm it in the fireplace.
As he did every morning, the leader of the council of New Winnabow gazed out the big kitchen window to enjoy the panoramic view of his beloved community.
To his surprise, last night brought only two false alarms; Parsons had expected more. But he expected only false alarms. In his heart, he believed standing firm to Trevor Stone was the best thing to do. He had looked into the young man’s eyes. He saw pain there. He saw a maturity beyond his years, but he did not see evil. There was no way that young man would send people to kill people.
A glare caught his attention; a flash in the light of dawn. He squinted and saw something on the roof across the way.
In the last second of his life, Robert Parsons realized how wrong he had been.
He did not hear the shot but he did hear a tink as the bullet broke through the glass on its way into his throat.
The man who often quoted Socrates and Aristotle in council meetings… the man who had laid the first cornerstone of New Winnabow…the man who believed that violence had brought Armageddon to Earth…slumped to the floor with his eyes wide open in shock and his hands clutching at the gory hole in his neck.
Instinctually, he tried to call out but the bullet severed his vocal cords, the only sounds from his dying lips came in gurgles of blood.
He lay on the kitchen floor kicking and rolling before finally growing still and cold…
…Trevor opened the doors and stepped onto the balcony overlooking the front grounds of the estate. He could also see the boathouse and dock where Jerry Shepherd had ‘drowned a few worms’ often in those early days.
Those simpler days.
Above all of that was the sky; a sky lonely for the sun, and it would soon come. It always came. Like so many things in the universe, it was inevitable.
JB stood inside and studied his father as that man waited for the inevitable…
…Beautiful golden fields surrounded New Winnabow. Beautiful golden fields of tall grass sloping up to meet the woodlands.
