Chapter 5
The following afternoon, I’m in a hastily constructed outlook perch in the tallest tree near the road from the Capitol, waiting for the first set of troops to arrive.
As expected, this morning they sent out a couple of scouts to investigate.
The guys I have posted on the route radioed early to alert us, so we trapped the scouts easily with a simple damsel-in-distress ruse.
(Nineteen-year-old Nicky loves playing the damsel.) The scouts ended up joining the rest of our captured troops from the outpost in the prison cell behind the main building, and then all we needed to do was wait for the next response from the Capitol.
Vella collected bets for whether they’d send more scouts, one unit in a truck, two units in two trucks, or a larger contingent. The wagers were evenly split between the options.
Physical currency stopped being used in this part of central North America after the asteroid hit Europe forty-six years ago and governments and infrastructure collapsed around the globe.
Soon after the Central Cities organized under the first dictatorial president, he implemented an oppressive credit system, but those who live on the fringes of society have no access to government credits.
Barter is the only way to obtain our provisions. The smaller villages are always open to trading on their market days with strangers and travelers. So our bets are never backed by money.
They’re mostly for bragging rights.
I didn’t participate—I never do—but Ben went for one unit in a truck.
I know he’s right even before one of our lookouts radios in to let us know that one truck with six guards and a driver is on its way toward us.
As soon as we got news of its approach, I called everyone into their planned positions. The explosives were placed last night, but Ben goes out to activate the ones we’ll need right now.
Then he climbs up into the outlook with me. “Mood is good.”
“Yeah. I think everyone is happy to be taking real action. It’s been a long stretch of individual rescues and sneaking around.”
“Be stupid to take action too soon.”
“I know. We did it right, even though it’s taken years. Even now, we wouldn’t be doing much else if we hadn’t lucked out with Gabriel and the Arsenal plans.”
Last year, someone approached us for help across the border. He was a high-level administrator for the president, but he’d turned on him and wanted to defect with his palace partner but couldn’t do it on his own. In exchange, he gave us the architectural plans and security details for the Arsenal.
“Not only luck. He came to you for help and gave you the plans ’cause of your reputation.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“No guess about it. He came to you ’cause of everythin’ you’ve done up till now.” He gives me one of those quick, sidelong glares I always get from him when I minimize my accomplishments.
I’ve done better than anyone else at leading an organized rebellion in the Central Cities, but it’s been year after year of small, tedious steps. I’m not a particularly patient person, so it’s led to a lot of frustration.
Honestly, I’m every bit as excited as the rest of us that we’re finally making a definite step.
“Here we go,” Ben says, scanning where the road disappears into the horizon. It’s a long stretch of overgrown grass and weeds on one side and some scrabbly woods on the other. The approaching truck is easily visible in the distance.
“Five minutes,” I say into the radio, taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders. My folks are dependable and well trained, but the temptation to give last-minute instructions is strong.
This is important.
It’s essential.
If we fail at this, we’ll be forced to fall back to where we were three years ago, causing occasional disruption and helping people cross the border under the radar.
I’m about to lift my radio back to my mouth when Ben puts a light hand on my forearm.
“They know what to do. It’s a good plan, and they’re ready.”
I sigh and relax, giving him a half-hearted scowl. “I’m not good at ceding control.”
“That I know.” He’s not looking at me right now, but his mouth twitches slightly.
“You don’t have to be smug about it.”
He shoots me a laughing look, but it doesn’t last long. The truck is getting closer. It’s holding a steady pace but not a rushed one. They might not know what’s going on at the outpost, but they probably don’t think they’re going to face much resistance.
They almost never do.
That’s one of our advantages.
We wait three minutes until the truck reaches the first explosive.
It fires. It’s small but creates a loud, completely unexpected bang just in front of the right corner of the truck.
It does no damage, but the scared driver veers wildly to the side.
Before he can stabilize, the next explosive fires on the opposite side of the road, just in front of him.
He swerves again, even more dramatically.
The truck runs into the ditch and comes to an abrupt halt.
Two of the men in the back get thrown all the way out of the truck, and the others lose their footing. They have no time to react, assess their condition, and start shooting before they’re surrounded by our people.
Central City guards are used to always having the advantage. They do finally get themselves together to fire their weapons, but only one of them actually hits a target. Roderick’s backpack pays the price.
My people shoot back, and they don’t miss.
Four of the guards are killed in the initial gunfire. The two others plus the driver are rounded up to join their compatriots in the jail cell, which is fortunately big enough to fit all our captives.
And now we have a combat truck since the explosives were timed perfectly and did no damage.
Those trucks are sturdy, so I doubt the impact with the ditch even made a dent.
Roderick gives a loud whoop as he climbs into the driver’s seat and backs it out of the ditch with the help of a couple of other guys who push.
I’m smiling at Ben as we climb down from the perch.
He smiles back.
We did it.
It’s about time.
One thing I’ve noticed over the years.
Get a big enough group of doers together—bold, idealistic, or adventure seeking—and you can definitely get things done. But you also have a lot of strong wills, adrenaline, and testosterone to channel.
Usually it’s an advantage, but there are also some unwelcome side effects. Namely, interpersonal conflict.
I have very little patience for bickering. I used to dismiss gripes and squabbles without giving them any attention. I’d make my people shut up, and if they didn’t, they were gone.
But a couple of years ago Ben mentioned, in his laid-back way, that I should at least listen to the issues being argued about because it could give us insight into the group dynamic, which will only help us.
Ben almost never suggests anything that implies I’ve handled things wrong.
It’s not because he’s a yes man. He’s not.
He has strong opinions and isn’t afraid of articulating them, but he and I think the same about nearly every part of this fight.
So when he does disagree with one of my ideas or actions, I always take it seriously.
He doesn’t argue for the sake of arguing. If he tells me something, it’s important.
I listened to him back then. When arguments arose, I experimented with letting folks tell me what they were angry about.
I still dismiss their complaints half the time, but my people believing I’ve actually heard them has changed things.
I don’t lose nearly as many as I used to for minor reasons or from hurt feelings.
And more than once a simmering uprising in the ranks has been rooted out before it has caused a problem.
When we all return to the outpost building—excited and victorious—it’s probably not surprising that the energy eventually shifts. My first clue is when I hear Vella saying, “Fuck you!”
Her voice isn’t soft and gentle under normal circumstances, and when she’s angry it carries.
I hear it from all the way in the command station.
I’ve been fiddling with our plan for the next advance from the Capitol, but at the sound of Vella cursing, I get up and go outside to see what’s happening.
What’s happening is a fight. A loud, angry fight between Vella and Roderick. It hasn’t come to blows yet, but it’s close.
Ben has come around the building—he was tinkering with our newly acquired combat truck but must have heard the conflict like I did—and he comes to my side as I snap, “Enough! We have enough of a fight coming for us. We don’t need one with each other.”
I’ve learned to make my voice carry. It breaks through the shouting and murmurs of interest from the gathered spectators.
Vella breaks off mid-sentence and takes a step back, turning to me as she visibly bites back her outburst.
Roderick doesn’t react as immediately or as willingly. He’s still grumbling under his breath, his glare taking in both me and Vella now.
“What is the problem?” I demand.
When they both start to talk, I raise a hand to silence them. “Roderick.”
I start with him on purpose because I know Vella trusts me implicitly. She won’t take it personally that she’s not allowed to speak first the way Roderick will.
He’s a big man with a bushy red beard and close-cropped hair. He always wears pre-Fall army fatigues. He’s over fifty, which means he was alive before the old world fell. Just a child back then, but still. It’s a different perspective. Often useful. “She’s been interfering with my guys.”
My eyebrows arch. “Your guys?”
“My team,” he amends reluctantly. It’s not the guys I was questioning, and he knows it. I use that generic word for my people all the time. It’s the implication that the guys are his.
“And how has Vella been interfering?” The question is genuinely seeking information. It’s not any sort of challenge.
“She was just now giving them directions. I’m the team leader. That’s my job.”