Children Of Fiends - Part 2 A Nation By Another Name: An Of Sudden Origin Novella (5 page)

It was 9AM and Plimpton was enjoying a hot soak when Hanson informed him from the other side of the door that the constable was downstairs. Plimpton allowed exasperation to fill his voice and said, “Hanson, I’m bathing. What could he want?”

“Didn’t say, sir. Just that it was personal.”

“Tell him to see me at my office like everyone else.”

“Personal, sir. Clear he made that.”

Plimpton felt a slight tinge of fear cool his blood. Suddenly the tub water was downright tepid. The feeling was quickly replaced by irritation. While he was enjoying his bath no less. “Put him in the library.” Hoping the exasperation in his voice would punish Hanson for the interruption, he stood up and grabbed a towel, yelling “Offer him tea - not hot enough for him to wish to linger. I’ll be down in fifteen.”

When Plimpton entered the library he was dressed in his finest suit, his hair perfectly combed and his face cleanly shaven. The constable, a man named O’Connor (Irish, how droll thought Plimpton) was perhaps fifty-five, rail thin with pale skin and a skimpy white beard. His blue gray eyes were his greatest weapon; by invoking utter calm and sympathy, they tended to allay any perpetrator’s fears. The same eyes were capable of turning steel gray when angered and could bring the same perpetrator to his knees with dread for his very future. The constable had once been the chief homicide detective for the Dover Police Department. He was very good at his job and he was quite certain that he was sitting in the home of a barbarous killer. Plimpton was the most powerful man in The Shore. He offered his kind eyes to begin with.

Plimpton felt his shoulders relax. Probably a minor manner. Something about a fellow council member that required discretion.

“I see that Hanson has provided you with tea, Chief Constable. Is there anything else you might need to be comfortable?”

The constable set down his cup and stood, “Counselor, I am here on rather serious business. Business that I believe may directly pertain to you.”

Plimpton felt his shoulders tighten again. “Sit, sit, O’Connor. I’m sure that whatever you’ve come to talk about can be said so in a civilized manner.” Plimpton looked at the lone cup of tea and muttered about the lack of a full pot at the table. He turned his head slightly to call behind him. “Hanson, have Maribel bring me some tea as well, would you?”

O’Connor didn’t sit. “Actually, Counselor, I’ve asked Mr. Hanson to remain in the room. This pertains to him as well. Mrs. Morella has been excused for the day.”

“Excused? By whose authority?” Plimpton felt a sudden genuine fear grip his loins and his guts. He was grateful that he had taken a seat. “Hanson?”

O’Connor held up a hand, “Inform you, I should, that other officers are outside.”

“Whatever for?”

“Councilman, we will need a sample of your blood to act as validation for the hair samples that we have already acquired. Mr. Hanson has already agreed to give us some of his.”

Plimpton forced himself to stand and put on his most agitated face. “O’Connor, what in God’s holy name are you talking about?”

“Sir, you are a suspect in the rape and murder of one Tillie Jarvis, aged 17, who was found on the North Manchester Road two days ago. A sample of your blood will be necessary for the proof of your innocence.”

Plimpton stood stock still, his ability to process the charge and offer a retort stymied by his shock of how rapidly the discovery of the deed had led to him. His mouth made various efforts to bring forth a coherent sentence until he gained enough wits to stammer, “By what right do you dare ask such a thing of me?”

“By the very right that you and your fellow councilors have signed into law. January 2026, Civil Code 2436B: Citizens retain no right of refusal in matters of evidence gathering for criminal investigation. Code 2026H: In matters of criminal investigation, upon demand of the police authority, a person’s bodily fluids are subject to search and seizure, without warrant.”

Plimpton silently cursed Quale and his overwrite of the civil code with his twisted version of military code. Niles would need to dial back his drinking during future council meetings. The law was clear, even if his memory didn’t recall the stated wording. He needed to stall. “Of course, Chief Constable. Hanson and I are more than willing to offer our assistance. But, if I may, by what means do you have to come accusing us of such a heinous deed?”

“A carriage had been parked where the young lady’s strangled remains had been dumped. The ground was damp and impressions were left. The horse’s shoed hoof prints in particular were exceptionally well preserved. The timing of the event and your departure from work, along with the hoof impressions matching perfectly with your very own horses, leads us to believe that it was your carriage.”

“Really? And who gave you permission to investigate the hooves of my horses?”

“Sir, let’s dispense with my reciting more of the civil code. It is only the very gravitas of your office that compels me to tell you as much as I have. I needn’t tell you anything. I needn’t ask you permission for your blood. I have the right to arrest you and Mr. Hanson right now.” Plimpton began to protest when O’Connor cut him off. “There is a phlebotomist outside who is prepared to take blood from both of you. If you cooperate, you will not be arrested and instead may remain in your own custody until the tests are confirmed. It should be no more than twenty-four hours when I’m sure that you will be vindicated and can be on with your very important business” The policeman offered this with just enough doubt in his voice to again make Plimpton squirm.

“And how will the testing of our blood do that, Constable?”

“Let’s just say that the killer wasn’t terribly concerned about leaving traces of himself behind.”

As Hanson held the door for him to climb into his winter coach, Plimpton felt the tape on his arm where the phlebotomist had secured the gauze over the needle wound. The police had impounded his summer carriage and he wondered what traces of the girl were left in there. His memory of forensic television programs told him that there was likely a great deal. The cow was out of the barn so to speak. He pointlessly chastised himself for his sloppiness anyway. He had grown arrogant. As he listened to the coach springs groan while Hanson climbed into the driver’s seat, he briefly flirted with pinning the whole thing on his footman; having found the man out, he would kill his servant and claiming self defense – but the fantasy was just as quickly washed away by the certainty that his DNA would match the sloppiness with the girl. Fool, he thought. Arrogant fool. He had felt less cornered as he fled the Fiend onslaught ten years before.
 

He was barely able to pay attention at the Council morning meeting, his eyes gazing instead at the vistas that made up the view and the rather dark looking storm system that seemed to be approaching from the Northeast. It wasn’t until Major Thompson stood up and started talking about a Sentinel scout that had reported on human activity in Richmond that Plimpton’s ears perked up. The major was answering Dietrich Pelham’s query saying, “Yes councilor, there were devil children with them. The obvious conclusion is that they are the same group that confronted the Eagle.”

Ashton was an impatient man. He had always demanded quick results. More than anyone on the Council, he had been the architect of the revitalization of the capital and The Shore in general. He was like a weight on everyone’s shoulders, but no one could deny that he got results. The former bank exec, asked, “And?”

Major Thompson offered a calm smile and continued, “Believe it or not, they managed to get an old locomotive up and running. Piled inside they did and headed south. The Sentinel followed until it came to the edge of its operational range.”

“So what does that tell us, Major?” asked Ashton.

“I couldn’t speculate, Lawrence. Beyond the notion that they are making a land exploration of the South. The devils? We know what they are capable of. Perhaps it’s like bringing friendly Indians along to act as a go between.”

“Like Sacajawea,” offered Senator Brown. She smiled slightly at the clever connection and her proud knowledge of basic American history. “You know, the Indian woman who help guide Lewis and Clark.”

“We all know who Sacajawea was, Paula,” said Martha Kincaid testily, while thinking for the thousandth time that Brown’s ability to state the obvious and then speak in platitudes had either been a product of Washington’s idiot factory or that perhaps it was just idiots like Brown who had run the place. Either way she was over the woman whom she had once run and won against for state senator, thank you very much.

“Can we focus on the matter at hand?” asked Ashton who was so over the nonsense between these two women that he was ready to hurl them both off the balcony. “Colonel, what of the Air Force?”

“We are prepping the long range drone as we speak, Mr. Ashton.” Colonel Quale leaned back in his chair to appear nonchalant. In reality he was a bundle of nerves. They only had the one long-range reconnaissance drone and the precious fuel that was reserved for it was in ever shorter supply. Nevertheless, the mission was clearly necessary so the fuel would be used. The camera system was always acting up – but he’d be damned if he give these bastards the satisfaction of knowing it. The Air Force was infallible.

“And the fuel for the drone?” asked Dietrich Pelham, as though reading the colonel’s mind. “Is it really necessary that we use such precious stuff for God only knows what? Should it not be reserved for our defense?”

“If I may?” Offered Major Thompson. “We have never seen evidence of our Northern neighbors exploring beyond their borders. They are now in our sphere of influence. We would be remiss to not find out what they are up to.”

Plimpton had an epiphany: a mission to follow the interlopers. Councilman Niles Plimpton, founding member and savior of The Shore, would make the brave sacrifice to lead such a mission. His country was now a trap that he could not escape by foot, horse or even plane. He hated the nation to the North; had built his state in defiance of nearly everything that the disconnected mess of Federalism stood for. Running north was not an option. A mission of discovery in defense of his nation was just what he needed to put Constable O’Connor in the politically precarious position of trying to arrest the nation’s first real hero. “We must follow them,” he stated with pure conviction. “Colonel you will pin down their route. Major you will prepare a train to follow and put together the appropriate elements need to succeed. Lead the mission myself, I will.”

The room went silent as everyone looked at their unelected leader, their private thoughts running the gamut from glee that the bastard was leaving and would likely die (Lawrence Ashton) to desperate fear over the potential loss of their guiding light (Martha Kincaid). Finally, Thompson spoke up and said, “The trains are our primary method for moving goods and people across The Shore – as well as military equipment and most importantly as a way to gather our needs from the dead zones. From a pure national security point of view, would it truly be prudent to risk one of only three assets of its kind?”

Plimpton paused. It was practical, respectful reasoning like this that had caused him to come to love the major. “Yes, and lead you will, the military aspect of it.”

Plimpton’s word was technically up for a vote within the council. In reality it was law. He had so rarely been wrong as he built and defended his nation that the rest of the people simply deferred to his opinions as final. This remained the case and the motion was accepted without further debate. Colonel Quale was already calculating his rule. Plimpton was an insufferable bastard. Quale was the leader that The Shore required.
Plimpton’s need to escape aside, the quarry was rapidly getting away. Time was of the essence and Major Thompson was in top form putting the expedition together. Less than twenty-four hours after Plimpton had suggested the mission, the train was loaded and a small handpicked team ready to roll. Along with Plimpton, Hanson and the Major, there were four drone operators with two Sentinels and a two-man crew for the locomotive.

The train was pulled by an old GE Evolution series ES44AC diesel electric. It was a heavy-duty locomotive that got fairly good fuel mileage. There was a passenger car and a boxcar built especially for drone storage and control. There was also one tanker car of spare fuel – precious fuel. In so many ways, The Shore had been a lucky place to survive Omega and the Russian nuclear winter: There was lots of wind power and they had been able to tap into the Hope Creek nuclear generating station across the Delaware in New Jersey, which was patrolled at all times by two Sentinels. Diesel fuel and gasoline were all together different. Despite extreme rationing, the existing stocks on The Shore had been used up within a year of the onset of nuclear winter. It wasn’t until the people there had truly gotten on their feet that they had begun to make raids with their valuable trains to the fuel storage facilities surrounding the island nation.
 

The population of The Shore had quickly learned to live inland from the northern border of their island where it met the ruined city of Wilmington. In the early days, when the nation was just getting on its feet, several unfortunate curiosity seekers had had their minds taken over by small groups of foraging devils on the far shore and had subsequently launched themselves into the water that separated the two worlds, to fates unknown. Despite this, caution was overruled by the desire for the goods that lay in abandoned abundance on the mainland. To that purpose, a single rail bridge was repaired and permanently guarded by drones. As the Shoremen ventured out in their searches for fuel and other valuable goods, the Sentinels and their drivers would occasionally cross paths with The Devil Children. These encounters were short lived; the Shoremen quick and merciless in their killing. No effort was made to parley with or capture any of these beings. With final say on all matters of the devil and his spawn, Vicar Wentworth overruled the few scientists who pleaded with the government to try to capture and study them. Those scientists who struggled with this policy were deemed hostile to national security and banished to the mainland to research all that they wished. As such, the creatures remained an unknown quantity and fodder for nightmares.