Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Scorched Envy
Tupelo, Verdancia, the day after General Calder’s rescue
General Edgar Garcia sat on someone’s front porch rocker with his feet propped on a stool.
A private brushed and scrubbed the mud from his boots.
He’d rolled up his sleeves for comfort—a mistake, he realized, the instant a mosquito bit him.
The air lay thick and wet against his skin, heavy with the sweet rot of overripe fruit and river mud.
This had been one buzzard-glitching disaster of a day.
“That’s enough,” he grumbled to the private.
He gave the boot one last buff before snapping to attention. “Anything else, sir?”
“Find General Schuler and Colonels Finstemayer and Green,” he barked. “Tell them I want a report now.”
“Yes, sir.” He snapped a salute and jogged away.
Tupelo was a right nice little town—picket fences and gardens, shops and eateries, churches and entertainment halls.
But, like Corinth, it was conspicuously empty.
Unlike Corinth, signs of prosperity bloomed everywhere.
He’d passed fields of cotton, corn, and soybeans on his way into town.
Pecan and peach trees grew wild, cattle grazing fat in open pastures.
They didn’t have time to drive their herds off, so they couldn’t have had too much warning. At least my army will eat well tonight. He had sent his trusted man, Sergeant Blanchard, with three platoons of cooks and supply personnel to butcher and prepare the beef.
Still, they had time to strip everything else of value.
Home safes and medicine cabinets—empty. No weapons or electronics remained in abandoned houses.
Edgar couldn’t spare the time or manpower to spread out into the surrounding area in search of them.
He could still report to President Irons that he’d taken control of the town, even if it was a hollow victory.
A hot-air balloon drifted in from Fort Rustin bearing a letter from the president, scolding him for falling into a trap.
“You’d better not disappoint me again. Comprendo?
” it read. A knot tightened in his gut at the reply he was forced to send.
General Calder, whom we had captured, has escaped with the help of an elite ranger team.
At least he assumed that’s what had happened.
His disciplined ranks of soldiers frolicked through Tupelo like men and women on holiday, looting what they could, parading around the streets in civilian hats or clothes they’d found.
When he saw a man wearing a cotton dress, dancing with a frilly parasol, he leaped to his feet, yelling furiously, “Soldier! Stop that this instant!”
Edgar stormed toward the fellow. He froze, color draining from his face.
“Give me that!” Edgar snatched the umbrella with one hand and ripped the blue gingham dress clean off him, leaving the soldier in his skivvies. “You’re a disgrace! What’s your name, soldier?”
He blinked and swallowed, mortified that his peers were pointing and laughing. “Uh, Barney. Private Todd Barney. Sorry, sir. I was just havin’ a little fun. You said we could—”
“I said you could collect spoils, not parade around all gussied up like a lady bound for a cotillion. You’re on latrine duty for the duration. Understood?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Edgar wadded up the dress fragments and threw them at Barney, who instinctively caught them.
“Put some proper clothes on and get busy with the latrine.” He pivoted and stomped back to the grand wraparound porch, white columns glaring in the sun.
He frowned at it, angry that these Verdancians had fields and forests at their disposal, an abundance of rain, and luxurious homes.
Well, not all the houses were as impressive as this one, but they were all …
functional and attractive, painted in pastels or made of bold brick.
At home in Amarillo, his family’s adobe dwelling didn’t compare.
Sand blew into every crevice. No trees tall enough to cast shade.
He might not have been beset by mosquitoes at home, but scorpions made themselves a dangerous nuisance.
He examined the parasol in his hand. Oiled cotton floral fabric over a wooden frame with a working slide.
I’ll take it home for my wife, he thought. It can shade the sun as well as keep off the rain.
By the time his top officers returned from overseeing their assignments, Edgar was sipping a glass of lemonade, enjoying the breeze and shade of the porch. The citrus cut through the humid air, sharp and clean, nothing like the dust-choked heat back home.
“You wanted to see us, sir?” asked General Schuler.
A female general, he thought in disbelief.
She’d come from Fort Smith in the north with a balloon and large contingents of cavalry and infantry.
He’d never been to Fort Smith, but he heard about the base on the Arkansas River that defended against mutated beasts, wildlings, and whatever else came down from the mountains.
Edgar, who was from the desert-prairie, suspected she felt more at home in these surroundings than he did.
“Yes. Let’s take our meeting inside.” Edgar led them into a parlor with high, open windows and plush seating. His assistant served lemonades made from the fruit the residents had left behind.
Edgar forewent formalities, getting straight to the point. “Colonel Green, what did the sweep of your sector turn up?”
He sipped his beverage, his eyes lighting with a delighted smile.
“This is really good. As for what we turned up? Next to nothing. Empty houses, furniture. A few knick-knacks and clothes. Any vehicles in my quadrant were nonfunctioning. However, I discovered the water is still running inside the homes and businesses. I noticed several water towers, so it might be on a gravity system.”
Colonel Finstemayer and General Schuler reported similar findings. The inhabitants were all gone, taking their best belongings with them. Horses, motor vehicles, dogs and cats, gone. Valuable supplies, gone.
“Well, they couldn’t take their cattle and fields,” Edgar growled, glowering at his officers. “The cotton isn’t ready. Much of the corn and soybeans have already been harvested. What about fuel?”
“Their vehicles are adapted to run on ethanol,” said Colonel Finstemayer, licking his lips after finishing his refreshment. “Ours run on petroleum. They don’t mix.”
“Great!” Edgar exclaimed sarcastically. He threw a hand in the air, rolling his eyes. Worried they hadn’t brought enough diesel and gasoline with them, he estimated they barely had enough to reach Marchland. He’d need to be resupplied before they could advance on Nelanta. Another delay.
“Yes, but my troops discovered several barns stacked with hay,” Schuler said optimistically. “At least we can feed our horses.”
“Here are your new orders.” The general straightened, glaring at the empty glasses of refreshing lemonade—something he couldn’t get at home.
His heart hardened toward Tupelo, its prosperous citizenry, and its variety of churches and happy homes.
He’d even spotted a Jewish synagogue. Probably all mixed-blood and perverts.
He gritted his teeth. How could they enjoy such a lifestyle when he and his family couldn’t?
Edgar raised his gaze, passing it among his officers. “Load everything usable onto our trucks. The hay, the ethanol, grain from silos, food, water.” Beyond the open windows, cattle lowed in distant pastures, and porch swings creaked in the lazy afternoon breeze.
“Tomorrow morning, when we head out, burn it all to the ground. I don’t want a rustin’ house standing—not a cotton field, not a single vegetable garden. Scorched earth. Understood? These enemies will have nothing to come back to.”
Mercy was for the weak. If the Verdancian scum had been here, he’d have killed them all too, down to the last child.
“Yes, sir,” they answered weakly, nodding their understanding.
“Is there more lemonade before we destroy everything?” asked Colonel Green, a hopeful look on his face.
The general snorted and pushed out of his chair. “Take whatever you can find. Tomorrow, it all goes. Dismissed.”
Marchland, two days later.
The green-and-gold Verdancian flag snapped high above the ramparts of Marchland Fortress, where First Sergeant Roy Sutter stood watch in the midday heat, his dark hair plastered to his skull, green shirt darkened with sweat.
His platoon of archers lined the battlements, interspersed with riflemen.
Artillery crews hunched over catapults and cannons.
Braziers glowed every ten meters, heat licking upward, ready to swallow arrows or tar-soaked stones.
All souls stood vigil, their tension drawn hard as steel on an anvil.
Every soldier knew what was coming; when it would fall was the only question.
Roy raised the binoculars again, scanning the lowlands to the north, watching for the glimmer of sunlight on metal or movement along old Highway 61. Even after a week without rain, the earth still sucked at the road, black mud glistening in stagnant pools.
“I doubt they’ll take this approach,” sounded a voice behind him. Roy pivoted to face Lieutenant Colonel Miriam Vance. “But we must remain vigilant.”
He nodded, understanding that any general worth his salt would study both the terrain and history when planning an attack.
Centuries ago, General Grant had lost thousands in these wetlands, sucked into the mire while fire rained from this hill.
Forced to change tactics, he marched around and attacked from the east. Even then, Grant only captured the city following a long, grueling siege.
“Yes, ma’am,” Roy answered brightly. “We’ll be ready.”
“Waiting’s the worst,” said Vance. She lifted her chin and peered over the parapet.
Roy respected Vance, even though she was younger and outranked him. A tall woman, she held herself with authority and had benefited from higher education. Her opinion carried weight.
“That’s for sure,” he replied. Waiting meant time for fear to fester and nerves to falter, for those who watched to grow lax. Like everything else in the military, it was a game of hurry-up-and-wait.
A bell exploded into the air on the southwest side of the massive stronghold, catching everyone’s attention. Colonel Vance grabbed the radio clipped to her belt. “What is it?”
The voice on the other side answered, “Riverboats headed this way, and they ain’t ours.”
“North wall, hold your position!” she ordered in a resounding voice. “Keep watch. It could be a diversion.” Vance then made haste along the battlements toward the big guns that commanded the top of the bluffs.
Minutes dragged like hours as Roy’s attention shifted between the lowlands to the north and the anticipation of an assault from the river.
Then cannon fire tore open the air. Shells screamed overhead.
The bluffs shuddered as explosions ripped the river below.
The earth kicked beneath the walls, vibrations climbing through his boots into his bones.
“Can anyone see what’s happening?” he asked.
Lieutenant Butler, atop a lookout tower, beamed down at Roy, the archers and sharpshooters, and the north wall artillery crews, his teeth gleaming against his dusky skin.
“A task group of riverboats—they’re getting pummeled!
Can’t raise their aim high enough to hit the walls while we’re swamping them.
They damaged a couple of our ships, but more than half of theirs are sinking or burning.
The others are turning back, but we’ve got their number. ”
Cheers broke loose—hands slapped, boots thudded, men shouting into the hot air. After a week of preparation and a week of watching the grass grow, something had finally happened, and it was going their way.
“Whoop, whoop!” hollered a corporal under Roy’s command. “Boy, we showed them, didn’t we, Sarge?”
Roy, feeling a great deal of national pride, grinned at him, slapping his shoulder. “We sure did. But I guarantee you, they were just takin’ a look-see. They’ll be back with more ships.”
“Do you think?” The corporal’s exuberance waned. Roy nodded and returned to his watch, raising the binoculars. He surveyed the old highway, covered with cracks, vines, and deep puddles.
Vance is right. They won’t come this way.
A cold prickle crawled up his spine before his eyes found it.
The whir of tires. The growl of engines.
The thunder of hooves and boots. They surged from the treeline, branches snapping, mud spraying, the ground trembling under their weight.
The wind carried the stench of oil and horse dung. Metal and smoke coated his tongue.
Roy’s mouth went dry. His pulse slammed against his throat. Legions. Deep. Endless. A kilometer away. He ran, seized the nearest bell, and yanked the clapper hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“They’re coming! North wall!”
Boots pounded stone. Orders cracked. Someone dropped a rifle and cursed. In an instant, celebration changed to dread. Soldiers readied their guns and bows. Cannoneers loaded their shells while catapult crews poured tar on stones.
“OK, soldiers,” Roy called. “Remember your training. Don’t fire until the major gives the word and not until you have a clear target in your sights. We haven’t ammunition to waste. Courage! We have the high ground.”
The Iron Army rolled forward like a rusted tide. The marsh would slow them. It had to. Because nothing else would.