Starfist: Lazarus Rising (14 page)

"Allah's pointed teeth, Big Barb! You should know better than to startle a man this soon after he's been in combat!" he roared.

"Dorny, you sid back down and go back to sleep," Big Barb said, ignoring his words. "But first you help dat poor girl Klauda back to her feet. You apologize to her for trowin' her down like dat, den you check her for bruises. If you vind any, you kiss dem and make dem bedder!" She gripped Kerr's shoulders more firmly and pulled him to his feet, turning him around to face her. Dornhofer was already dismissed from her awareness.

"Timmy, it's no gut you sidding dere like dat. Here, I got wad you needs." She let go of his shoulders and reached around to pull two beautiful young women, one blond and fair, the other brunette and swarthy, from where they'd been hidden behind her massive bulk. "Dis iss Frieda and Gotta. Take yer pick, eider one of dem'll take goot care of you, make you wanna live again."

"Thanks, Big Barb, but—"

"What, you tink one's not goot enough? All right den, take bot'!" She let go of the young women's arms and planted a hand on each one's back. They both moved forward before she pushed. She squinted at him threateningly. "And don' you sen'

dem avay, neider!"

Big Barb waved at the group and ponderously wandered off in search of other Marines who might need encouragement.

Kerr didn't send the two beautiful young women away. Instead, after his dinner had time to settle, they led him to someplace private.

In time, all of the junior enlisted and junior NCOs who hadn't drunk too much to be functional wandered off with someone. They weren't allowed to take women back to the barracks, but that barely slowed anyone down. Some were fortunate enough to head into Bronnysund to a private room. The rest found other private places. The officers and more senior NCOs mostly had wives or other things to do and left the party earlier.

Top Myer belched contentedly around the Fidel chomped between his teeth as he finished setting the places around the table and stood back to admire his work. He glanced at the time. The others should show up momentarily, all fed just as well as he was. That had been a good party. Probably still was—when he'd left, most of the enlisted and junior NCOs were still eating, drinking, and chasing. With any luck, the crew coming to play cards would have had more to drink than he had, or started drinking before they had enough food in their guts to absorb the alcohol. In either event, they'd leave their money with him when the game ended.

"Lessee, here," he said to himself. "One, two, three—right, seven places set." A butt tray with a freshly clipped Fidel at each place, munchies bowls alongside the butt trays, and a cooler with half a dozen Reindeer Ales at the side of each chair, with lots more in the refrigerator. Two side tables laden with finger food that wasn't greasy enough to mark the cards too fast, steaks and bakers in the food servo in case anybody got hungry. An unopened deck of cards in the middle of the table, a dozen more unopened decks, and trays of varicolored chips on the shelf.

He looked around, satisfied. After living in the bachelor NCO quarters for a couple of years after his most recent marriage had dissolved, Myer opted for a small bungalow in a housing area not far from the infantry barracks. It wasn't much, the small living room crowded with the paraphernalia for the card game, but it had a bedroom big enough to entertain a lady when the occasion arose, and a small kitchen. Only one bath, though. Hell, if the line got too long later on, anyone who couldn't hold it could damn well go outside and water the neighbors' flowers.

He belched again, puffed away to keep his Fidel going, and reached for an ale. But he put the bottle back before opening it—it wouldn't do for him to be tipsier than any of his victims, er, guests. Not if he wanted to clean them out.

After three wives had left him, he'd decided to do without—at least for the remainder of his Marine career. All three had professed to love him, but claimed they couldn't deal with the stresses of the constant deployments and the uncertainty of whether he would live to come home to them.

As if a first sergeant faced much danger, he thought.

Maybe after he retired he'd get married again. Maybe one of his former wives would want to come back. He told himself he'd have to think about that.

Knuckles rapping sharply on the door brought Myer back to the present. "Come!"

The door opened to reveal the battalion sergeant major, Parant. He looked around, saw only Myer, said, "Oops, sorry to bother you, Top. Someone told me there was a party here," and started to close the door.

"Get in here, Bernie," Myer growled. "You're early, that's all. Have a seat." He got a Reindeer Ale from the kitchen and opened it for Parant. "Have a brew."

There was another knock on the door. It was Company L's gunnery sergeant, Gunny Thatcher, and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa.

"Come on in," Myer growled at them, and got out ales.

Moments later the FIST sergeant major, Shiro, and newly promoted Chief Hospitalman Horner arrived. After he gave them their first drinks, Myer briskly rubbed his hands together and sat down at the table.

"All right, now that we're all here, let the games begin!"

There was a moment of shuffling and scraping as the others took their places and rearranged their settings to their own taste.

"Wait a minute," Parant said. "There's six of us and seven places. Who's missing?"

Myer slapped the unopened deck in front of Hyakowa. "Open them, Wang.

You're too junior here to try a fast one on us." He looked at Parant. "Charlie Bass.

But you know him, he'd be late for his own funeral."

After a few seconds, Shiro broke the silence that had slammed over the group.

"Charlie's dead, Goldie."

"No he ain't. Charlie Bass is too damn dumb to get killed in some silly-assed ambush."

"He's dead," Horner and Thatcher said simultaneously. Hyakowa was too choked up to speak.

"These are my quarters," Myer rasped, giving a gimlet eye to each of them. "This is my table, my game. As long as I'm in 34th FIST, there's a place set at my table for Charlie Bass. Anybody who don't like it can get up and leave."

Parant had to clear his throat before he could speak. "You got that deck open yet, Wang? Let's cut. High card deals."

CHAPTER 10

It was the darkest time of the night, just before dawn. Charles and a select group of men had been working all night to prepare a defensive position in a draw half a kilometer south of the village. Although he was fast recovering his strength, Charles felt his endurance lagging and decided to return to New Salem for a short rest in the meetinghouse. He wanted to be fresh and on hand for the changing of the watch; the men working in the draw could finish what they were doing before sunrise and get under cover.

Charles had decided to reduce daytime outdoor activity as much as possible from now on, to lessen the chance that anyone might spot movement in the village and come to investigate. In fact, the villagers had partially dismantled some of the unoccupied buildings in New Salem to give the place an uninhabited look, the watch was mounted just before sunrise and just after sunset, and the only foot traffic permitted out of doors at New Salem nowadays when the sun was up was limited to essential requirements, such as communications required by the people on watch.

Everyone else slept during the daytime or attended to their domestic chores.

They all knew of infrared sensors and how they worked in the dark, but keeping under cover psychologically increased the feeling that they were doing everything they could to protect themselves. Just like the "fort" they were building in the draw.

Everyone knew if the Army of the Lord, much less the devils, attacked them, it would be useless for any long-term effective defensive measures. But the work kept them occupied.

However, the draw proved to have some advantages as a possible refuge and rallying point. It was thickly wooded, and a spring bubbled in the center of the position, which backed up to a vast complex of limestone caverns. It could be reached quickly, and best of all, if it had to be abandoned, the caverns provided an ideal series of escape routes that led to hidden exits away from New Salem. Every centimeter of this cave complex was familiar to the people of New Salem, all of whom had been through them on youthful sprees, family picnics and outings, and lovers' trysts over the years.

Several paths led from the village to the draw, all conveniently camouflaged by undergrowth that flourished throughout the area. Charles chose the one that led most directly back to New Salem. The fronds that brushed against him as he walked were heavy with morning dew. Overhead, the stars glittered in wild profusion. It was utterly quiet; not even a breeze stirred the vegetation.

Charles wondered idly who he was. He knew at one time in his life he'd been some sort of soldier, but not in the Army of the Lord. Zechariah had often pointed out that he was too profane and not quite arrogant enough to have belonged to
that
army!

Charles's dreams, when he could remember them at all, were full of military images, barracks scenes, what he took to be maneuvers, weapons, the faces of men he knew and respected. But he could never put names to the faces. The man named Chet, who had come with him from the prison cages, could now remember that he'd been a teacher or educator of some sort, but he couldn't recall where. And Colleen—Charles smiled when he thought of the redhead—could remember things out of her past too, but she was deliberately vague about them, and Charles wondered what she was trying to hide.

Someone stepped out from behind a bush and struck him a heavy blow across his shoulders. Charles fell to his knees, temporarily stunned. Someone whispered, "Hit him again!" and another blow fell across his back, which sent him sprawling into the path. He saw a pair of feet in front of him, and the name "Dupont" flashed into his mind. He grabbed the feet and yanked. With a cry of surprise, the man fell with a thud. Charles crawled up over his legs and landed a heavy blow on the man's face.

Then everything went black.

Zechariah Brattle sat alone in the kitchen of his home, staring at his last bottle of beer, left over from their reconnaissance to the destroyed camp in the heights above the Sea of Gerizim. He had been among the survivors who'd made their way to some caves a considerable distance from the heights, and later returned to see what could be salvaged, always with the fear that the attackers would return and finish them off.

On rare occasions since then he had privately consumed the beer, one at a time, the remaining bottles carefully stored at the bottom of the well out back. Like Charles, he had been up all night, constantly on the move between the watchers and the draw, observing, supervising, conferring, letting everyone see him. He'd even found time to drop in on the families of the men on duty. These were all his people, and he felt responsible for them.

It would be light soon—"first light," Charles called it, that time of day when you could read the Bible without the aid of artificial illumination. The watch would have to be posted before then and operations shut down. He looked at his timepiece. He had half an hour to himself. Comfort and Consort were already in bed. They'd worked all night too, preparing emergency stores to take with them into the fort if an alarm came. Three times that week Charles had called alarms, to test everyone's reaction. Zechariah had been pleased with the results. It took no more than five minutes to evacuate everyone to the draw. Charles, however, wanted it done in three minutes, and he promised to keep the drills up until they could do it in that time.

Zechariah's thoughts wandered to the Sea of Gerizim, the turning point in all their fortunes. It had been there that the City of God was destroyed, and with it, all their hopes for the survival of the community of the Lord. He sometimes agreed with the other survivors that it had been the will of God, just punishment for the evil plot the elders of their sect had put into effect to destroy that cargo ship. He sighed. It is hard to keep your faith in the Lord when all around you is fear and desolation, he reflected. In meeting, where he often preached because he was the leader of New Salem, he never admitted to this weakness. But alone, at the end of a hard day, sometimes his faith wavered and he wondered what God's plan for his people could possibly be. His Bible lay open before him. He'd been reading the Book of Job again.

Zechariah's thoughts turned now to Samuel. At times, when he was alone, he mourned the loss of his son. He'd had such hopes for the lad, just as they'd all had hopes for the City of God, before evil destroyed it, the same evil that had killed Samuel. He was sure that Sam was with the Lord, and to all outward appearances he had accepted that fact. But inwardly he still felt his son's loss as keenly as on the day Samuel was killed. He shrugged. Those thoughts were not good. He was responsible for a lot of other people. As Charles kept telling them, the leader's duty must always be to the job and his people; personal feelings had no place in the world of commanders.

Zechariah opened the bottle and poured half its contents into an empty glass. It frothed pleasantly. His nose wrinkled at the malty aroma of the brew. He sipped cautiously and sighed. He'd never much cared for beer before the Sea of Gerizim, and now he wondered how all those years he could have been so ignorant of such a wonderful pleasure.

Charles.
Zechariah had come to think of him almost as a son, although he was only a few years older than the stranger. But if Samuel had lived, Zechariah would have wanted him to be the kind of man Charles appeared to be—a strong-willed man, but not without heart. Zechariah knew Comfort was infatuated with him. When the image of the two of them together came into his mind, which it did often these days, he thought of—grandchildren.

But Zechariah was worried about his daughter, who moped around the house all day long, dutiful, as always, but taking little joy in helping her mother or the other women with their domestic chores. Whenever Charles came into the house, she would look at him with mournful eyes that said volumes she dared not speak. So Charles had moved in with Haman and Maria Dunmore, who had no children. Yet when he did visit the Brattles—which was frequently, because he and Zechariah often needed to confer—the tension between the former soldier, for that was how Zechariah had come to think of the man, and his daughter was palpable and distracting.