The Sheriff of Yrnameer (28 page)

“I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

He sat up. MaryAnn had stepped out of the doorway.

“It was like a voice was speaking in my ear,” he said, reminding himself to have a private talk with Fred as soon as possible.

She took a seat next to him.

“It was horrible seeing that,” she said.

“Yes.”

“She was so strong, and full of life.”

And stupid, thought Cole automatically, then guiltily banished the thought.

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh, Cole,” she said, and leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Before he realized he was doing it he put his arm around her, the most natural movement in the world, gently pulling her closer. She turned to look at him, her face inches from his, her lips soft and beckoning. Then she closed her eyes and moved forward subtly, and he closed his, and it was the most wonderful, transcendent kiss he had ever experienced.

Or would have been, he imagined later, if Nora hadn’t stepped out the door at that very moment and said, “So, what’s the plan?”

MaryAnn altered her approach pattern just enough so that she brushed by his waiting lips, continuing the action so that it became a smooth turning motion to face Nora.

“Hi, Nora,” said Cole.

“You do have a plan, right?” said Nora, standing over him, hands on her hips. “Or are you just going to sit around and play cards for another week, maybe wait for someone else to get shot?”

MaryAnn turned her gaze back to him.

“Of course I have a plan,” said Cole.

The next evening Cole strode briskly into the packed town hall, his strategic vision outlined on the several roles of poster-size paper tucked under one arm. As he made his way to the front, he overheard Joshua telling a group of citizens stories of Cole’s exploits in the space marines, adventures that had grown somewhat in the telling.

“He’s an expert at these things!” Joshua was saying.

The assembled Yrnameerians listened intently as Cole explained his plan, pinning up the papers and drawing charts out on a whiteboard. First, they would concentrate on constructing a series of defensive structures, starting with a heavy fence around the village. Beyond the fence would be a series of traps designed to slow and
weaken the approaching forces: pits with sharpened stakes at the bottom; trip wires; complex, spring-loaded devices designed to crush and puncture and maim. Hidden foxholes and sniper nests would be constructed to take advantage of what few weapons they had. Bandits who made it past the traps and the snipers and the fence would be funneled into narrow side streets and alleys, where they would be set upon and destroyed.

Construction would begin immediately. While that continued, Cole would lead the citizens of Yrnameer through a short but intense course of basic training, drawing on his extensive military experience to hone them into a razor-keen fighting force.

When he finished there was an unnerving moment of silence. Then the hall erupted in applause, building to cheers and stamping of feet and shouts of enthusiasm.

The plan, everyone concurred, was brilliant. Any quibbles were minor.

For example, everyone wholeheartedly agreed that the bandits needed to be trapped and corralled and destroyed, but the general consensus was that it should be done in the most benign way possible. The traps, for example: necessary, yes; but perhaps they could, say, forgo the sharpened stakes at the bottom. That, or how about not sharpening them so much. Someone suggested that they could keep the stakes, and keep them sharp, but wrap them in some sort of padded protective covering.

Cole didn’t argue. He nodded amiably and scribbled some notes and encouraged the comments. “Great idea,” he said when someone ventured that warning signs might be appropriate. “Like it, like it,” he said when someone else advocated some gentle music.

What did it matter? The whole thing, he knew, was a crock in the first place: they could build their traps and trip wires and their barriers and whatever else, and when Runk showed up with his men they’d blow a giant farging hole through the thick fence and flood through the middle of town and slaughter anyone who got in their way.

Yes, we need to use the firearms we have, someone said, but how about we just shoot them in the legs?

Great, said Cole. Great.

Cole envisioned the next few weeks passing as a sort of painless montage: there’d be music, and different moments of the townspeople hard at work building a defensive wall around the perimeter of the town, and digging holes to serve as traps, and training with the few weapons they had. There’d be a wiping of perspiration and drinks raised to one another and the exchange of friendly smiles between comrades, and perhaps deeper, more meaningful glances between him and MaryAnn.

But by midmorning of the first day, Cole had come to the unavoidable conclusion that the remainder of the experience would in fact drag on in exceedingly real time, with lots of heaving and hoing and digging and hauling under the hot sun, full of the kind of intense straining that raised the danger of a really spectacular hernia. And, judging from the few tense conversations he’d had so far, he foresaw a series of increasingly strident arguments with Nora regarding matters strategic. Plus, of course, at the end of all this effort they’d all probably be dead.

By around noon, Cole had decided that he was better suited to a supervisory role, the kind where he could relax in a chair in the shade of a broad umbrella, drinking germonade spiked with a little shersha, which he later discovered was made from the fermented excrement of some sort of segmented worm. Which, after a few more shots of shersha, didn’t bother him so much.

At the moment he was watching Nora direct the townspeople as they struggled to erect the fence: a series of stout logs, sharpened at the top and pounded vertically into the ground in a dense row, lashed to horizontal support braces.

“Push! Lift that! Lift!” she bellowed.

There was lifting and pushing, accompanied by much grunting. Cole raised his glass. “Good job, folks,” he murmured. “Keep going.”

“Lift!” Nora bellowed again.

“Lift,” seconded Cole, taking another drink.

MaryAnn wandered by a few meters away, her attention focused on the construction and the microphone in her hand.

“The brave creatures of Yrnameer have set to the task of defending their idyllic community,” Cole heard her saying.

“MaryAnn,” he said, calling out to her. She turned, spotted him, and waved back with a smile. He returned both gestures. There,
that
was more like what he’d been hoping for.

“You gonna help, or are you just gonna sit there and flirt with your little sweetheart?” said Nora, who staggered by carrying a heavy load of wood.

“You know, you’re very sexy when you’re sweaty and jealous,” said Cole. Ha, he thought, Good one, mentally raising his glass to himself. Nora scowled and stomped off, shaking her head.

“Sheriff?”

Cole twisted in his seat. It was Joshua, accompanied by a gralleth that shambled along next to him. The gralleth was about half as tall and four times as wide as Joshua, covered entirely in shaggy fur. Cole had seen him at several of the meetings, but hadn’t had a chance to speak with him.

“Sheriff, this is Grilleth,” said Joshua.

“Pleasure,” said Cole. He wasn’t certain, but he thought Grilleth the gralleth nodded back at him. Cole knew there was a head and two eyes in there somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where.

“Did you find anything else?” he asked Joshua.

“No, sir. Same old hunting weapons, a few sidearms. And, uh, Grilleth here says that his kind are, well, they’re very accurate in throwing their—”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that before,” said Cole.

Grilleth made a long rumbly sound.

“No, no need to demonstrate,” Cole said to him. “I’m sure it’ll come in very handy when the time comes, though.”

Grilleth made a few more rumbly sounds and waddled off. They watched him go.

“Can they really throw their—”

“Yes. It’s quite something,” said Cole.

Joshua watched the townsfolk struggling to place another fence post.

“Do you think we have enough people?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Do you think the traps will work?”

“Nope.”

“And we’re short weapons.”

“Yep.”

“So … what do we do?”

Cole smiled at him.

“We improvise,” he said.

Then he took a very long pull from the bottle of shersha.

That evening Cole knocked on MaryAnn’s door.

“Hi,” she said when she opened it.

“Hi,” he said back.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak since their near-kiss experience. Now, in the silence, that seemed like a long time ago.

“Can I come in?” said Cole.

She hesitated, leaning against the half-open door. “Cole,” she said, “what happened between us was … well, it was … Cole, with everything that’s going on—”

“MaryAnn,” said Cole evenly, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “it’s okay.”

She smiled in relief. “It is?”

“Of course,” said Cole. “In fact, I’m glad you feel that way. That’s why I came by. We’ve all got a big task ahead of us. This is life or death. It’s now or never. I’m going to need every ounce of concentration and focus to try and keep this town safe. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” said MaryAnn.

“I’m glad,” said Cole with a grave smile. “I’m so glad.”

As soon as he was around the corner Cole angrily kicked a wall and then limped rapidly in a small circle, swearing.

“Foot okay, Sheriff?”

Nora, observing him from across the street.

Cole shot her a murderous glance and hobbled off, muttering darkly.

˙  ˙  ˙

Time continued to pass in a very nonmontagelike fashion. The fence grew. Holes were dug. Stakes were sharpened and covered with protective padding. Cole forewent the sun umbrella and comfortable chair to supervise the weapons training and drills. There were several accidental discharges, sending people diving for cover. After less than a week there were six superficial bullet wounds, and one new hole added to the already well-perforated town sign.

At one point Cole heard a sharp crack and looked up just in time to see Geldar the sembluk soaring through the air like an errant fly ball, the result of Peter the ‘Puter spinning around too quickly with a two-ton log. It was a blow that would have killed anyone not equipped with a six-inch-thick shell. As Geldar shrank from view Cole had a repeat of the impression that he should know him, but then Geldar disappeared over the rooftops and Cole forgot about it again. After that, Peter was relegated to tasks that could be accomplished with no one in immediate log radius.

The townspeople, joined by a shared goal and hard labor, grew even closer. Cole and Nora, divided by their opinions regarding strategy, tactics, and whether or not he was an idiot, grew further apart.

There was one minor bright spot: despite his recent conversation with MaryAnn, he was making progress with her. He could feel it.

Every day he’d maneuver so that he would casually encounter her when they’d have a few moments alone to chat—keeping it light, not trying too hard, keeping the content breezy. The professional sparing a moment from a vitally important task, always upbeat and cheerful despite the grim nature of the threat that loomed. Then, before the conversation could flag, he’d break it off, apologizing with a smile, needing to get back to work. Leave her wanting more.

Every once in a while he’d catch Nora looking at him, or watching him talking to MaryAnn. Each time she’d immediately shift her attention to something else, her face impassive.

During his last encounter with MaryAnn she asked him, “Do you ever get scared?”

He took the time to look off into the distance as if he were remembering old battles, and heaved a deep sigh. “Everyone gets scared,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “It’s what you do
with it that matters.” Then he turned back to her and gave her the apologetic smile. “I should …”

“Get back to work,” she said.

He smiled and nodded, then turned to go.

“Cole …,” she said, after he’d taken several steps. He turned back to her. She smiled. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He smiled again and gave her a little salute with two fingers. It was so working.

Two hours later and he had completely forgotten about MaryAnn, Nora, the village, Runk, and the entire situation.

It was the afternoon. Cole was picking bits of soil out of his hair, the remnants of a clod of dirt he’d taken direct to the face courtesy of an exasperated Nora. He’d later retaliated with a playful nudge that sent her into one of the deeper and more muck-filled pits.

As he was prying loose a stubborn pebble from his left ear he spotted Mayor Kimber walking toward him with a clipboard, chatting with Geldar. Watching the sembluk, Cole once again had the fleeting sensation that there was a tantalizing piece of information dancing just beyond the borders of his consciousness.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” said the mayor when they were near. “Things seem to be progressing nicely.”

“Quite nicely,” agreed Cole. “Careful with that!” he called out to no one in particular.