Chapter 33
At first, Mary Anne thought the shapes in the distance were shadows thrown by the low sun.
Then one of them fell to its knees. The movement was too human to be anything else.
Emily saw it next. She dropped the bucket she was carrying and ran toward the road.
The sound of her shout brought everyone out of the clinic.
Hale and Freddie followed, rifles slung, eyes narrowing against the light.
As they reached the edge of the square, the survivors stumbled into view.
There were only seven. Their clothes were torn, faces burned by the sun and wind, skin streaked with dried blood.
One woman clutched a child so tightly that the girl’s arms had gone limp.
Another man’s leg was bound with a strip of shirt that was already soaked through.
The smell of blood and sweat hit before they reached the steps. Mary Anne ran forward.
They collapsed before she could reach them.
The first man hit the dirt hard, his breath rasping in his chest. He tried to speak but only managed a whisper for water.
Emily dropped beside him and held a canteen to his lips.
He drank until he coughed, spilling half down his chin. Hale called out orders.
Mary Anne took the child from the woman’s arms. The girl’s head lolled against her shoulder, but she was breathing.
She carried her inside the clinic and laid her on the nearest cot.
The woman followed, sobbing quietly. The room filled fast. She moved from one body to the next, cutting away burned clothing, washing wounds with boiled water, checking pulses that faded faster than she could count.
“Boil more,” she said to Emily. “Keep the water clean.”
Emily nodded and ran to the wood-burning stove.
One of the men grabbed Mary Anne’s wrist. His skin was hot and slick. “They’re coming,” he said.
“Who?” she asked.
“The men in the hills. They took everything.”
His eyes rolled back before she could ask more.
Rick leaned over the next cot, pressing a cloth against a wound. “This one’s shot through the shoulder,” he said. “The bullet’s still in.”
“Hold him,” she said.
He did, gripping the man’s arm while she worked with the scalpel.
The sound of metal against flesh filled the room.
When the bullet came free, she dropped it into a tin cup.
The man moaned but didn’t wake. Outside, the last light faded.
The square grew darker with every minute, the lanterns flickering in the wind.
When she stepped outside for air, Hale met her at the door.
His face was gray with dust. “Three dead,” he said. “Two more won’t make the night.”
“Where were they found?” she asked.
“Half a mile from the ridge. They were walking blindly. No water left.”
“How many are left with Harlan?”
“Over thirty,” he said.
“Seven came back,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Maybe fewer by morning.”
Rick came out behind her. “They said something about gunfire.”
“I heard the same.”
“They were ambushed,” Rick said. “Men with guns. Took everything. Food, water, even their shoes. They said Harlan tried to speak to them. They shot him first.”
“So, the light he saw?” Emily asked.
“A trap. Maybe a signal fire.”
“Then they walked right into it.”
“Did any of them say how many attackers?” Mary Anne asked.
“Too many,” Rick said. “More than a dozen. They came from both sides of the canyon.”
Hale’s jaw tightened. “That means they were waiting.”
Mary Anne leaned against the wall. “They were led to the slaughter.”
Rick’s voice was quiet. “He thought he was leading them to salvation.”
“Same thing in the end,” Hale said.
Mary Anne closed her eyes for a moment. “Get me more bandages. Clean cloth, whatever’s left.”
They worked through the night. The wounded filled every cot. Some were too weak to speak, their skin blistered and cracked. Others drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering pieces of what had happened.
“They came out of the rocks,” one man said. “No warning. They fired at us. People dropped. Harlan tried to talk. They laughed. Took the food, took everything.”
“They wore masks. Black cloth. Said the mountain was theirs now.”
Mary Anne kept her hands moving, cleaning wounds, tying bandages, pouring water past dry lips.
Her arms ached, but she didn’t stop. By midnight, two more had died.
Rick and Freddie dug graves behind the clinic, the ground hard and unyielding.
The sound of shovels striking dirt carried through the still air.
Emily sat beside the child who had survived.
The girl’s breathing was shallow but steady.
When Mary Anne came to check on her, Emily looked up.
“She hasn’t spoken,” Emily said.
“She’s in shock,” Mary Anne said.
“They said Harlan wouldn’t stop preaching even when they had guns on him. He kept shouting about light until they shot him.”
Mary Anne dipped a cloth into the basin and wiped the girl’s forehead. The hours blurred. The lanterns burned low. The heat from the bodies made the air thick. When morning came, it was gray and cold. Hale came in from outside, wiping sweat and dirt from his hands.
“Four buried,” he said. “Three breathing, barely.”
Mary Anne nodded. “We keep them alive if we can.”
“They’re already talking,” Rick said.
“About what?”
“About revenge. They want to go after whoever did this.”
“We don’t even know who they are,” Hale said.
“They’ll find out,” Rick said. “Fear’s turned into anger now.”
Mary Anne poured more water into the basin. “Let them talk. No one leaves this town armed until I say so.”
Hale glanced her way. “You think you can stop them?”
“I can try.”
He didn’t argue, and by midday, the survivors who could walk had gathered in the square. They looked worse in daylight, faces blistered, lips split, and eyes wild from exhaustion. Hale stood with them, trying to calm them, but the words meant little.
Rick stepped forward. “If you go chasing into those hills, you’ll die, too. You have no food, no water, and no plan.”
“So, we do nothing?”
“You rebuild. You survive.”
“Survive what?” the man shouted. “There’s nothing left to survive for.”
Mary Anne stepped between them. “Stop it. We’ve lost enough.”
The man looked at her. “You think this is over? They’ll come here next.”
“Then we’ll be ready.”
“That’s enough,” Hale said. “Everyone, back to work. We’ll double the watch tonight.”
The crowd broke apart slowly. Some went to the well; others went back to their homes. The survivors who were still able followed Emily to the clinic.
As the square emptied, Rick looked at Mary Anne. “He’s right about one thing. They might come.”
“They will,” she said.
Hale approached. “I’ll post guards on the road. No one leaves without my say.”
“Good, but don’t let them shoot at shadows.”
He nodded and walked away, calling orders. By late afternoon, the air was still and dry. The heat pressed down like a hand. Mary Anne washed the last of the blood from her arms. The water in the basin ran red, then pink, then clear.
Rick stood near the door, his face pale from exhaustion. “We buried seven more,” he said.
“Any others die while you were out?”
“One. The woman with the broken leg.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “That makes twelve.”
“Out of thirty,” he said.
“They were led into a massacre.”
“Harlan died believing he was right.”
“He wasn’t,” she said.
The child stirred on the cot. Mary Anne kneeled beside her. “You’re safe. You’re in Rosewood.”
“The light burned.”
“It’s over now.”
The girl closed her eyes again and fell asleep.
Emily came in carrying another bucket of water. “Everyone’s quiet,” she said. “Too quiet.”
“They’re waiting,” Mary Anne said.
“For what?”
“For someone to tell them what happens next.”
“You think they’ll listen?”
“They will if I give them something to do.”
Rick spoke without turning. “What if the raiders come again?”
“Then we fight.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”
“I do.”
The room fell silent except for the wind moving outside. The smell of blood still lingered, faint but constant. Hale returned after sunset. His face was grim but steady.
“Guards are posted. No movement on the ridge. If they come, we’ll see them first.”
“Good,” Mary Anne said.
He gave a small nod and left. Rick stayed behind, cleaning the instruments. The light from the lantern flickered over his hands.
“You ever think about what drives people to keep believing after everything burns?”
“Fear,” she said.
“That’s all?”
“It seems to be enough.”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s the same thing that keeps us building.”
Emily finished binding the last wound and stood. “I’ll take first watch at the door.”
Mary Anne nodded. “Wake me if anything changes.”
When Emily stepped outside, the room went quiet again.
The only sounds were the slow breathing of the wounded and the faint creak of the windmill turning above the well.
Mary Anne looked around the room. The survivors lay in rows, faces pale, eyes closed.
Each one represented another loss, another piece of faith burned away.
For the first time since the pulse, she felt something different stirring beneath her exhaustion. It wasn’t grief or fear. It was anger.