The Mutant brought its second sword down in an overhead hack.
Nina threw herself over the banister.
Instead of splitting her skull as intended, the sword splintered into the wood of the railing.
Nina slammed her baton against the Mutant’s wrist as it tried to pull the blade free. She felt its bones there break like dry twigs.
The Mutant howled in pain, released the sword, and backed off.
Nina grabbed the weapon.
It was short and surprisingly light, not from a lack of density but perfectly crafted balance.
She never trained in fencing or sword fighting, but she did know how to use nightsticks, batons, and bayonets. Nina relied on that training as she went into battle with a new weapon.
The Mutant regained its composure and raised its remaining sword, but its blade wavered, as if it knew fear.
Nina attacked. Given their preference for easy prey, Mutants were not accustom to facing determined enemies; they preferred sheep.
Nina was a wolf.
It hissed as she sliced its shoulder. It responded, swinging its blade around to take her head off. She ducked and punched the creature’s gut. It felt like hitting a rolled carpet, but she did elicit a grunt of pain from the monster.
Nina stood again and jabbed toward its oversized mouth. The Mutant stepped off and brought its sword around in time to smash aside the blow.
They parried and plunged at one another as she chased him up the aisle.
The little girl peeked from the pews and watched in amazement.
Swords clanged as they met in mid air. Nina spun and brought a back fist to the creature’s tough jaw. It staggered.
She used the momentum of her spin to whip her weapon around again. The Mutant raised its sword and blocked the attack.
Surely, an experienced swordsman could have defeated Nina’s amateurish thrusts and strikes, but her warrior’s instincts kept her on the offensive. In her mind lived a natural battle computer considering moves and counter moves a step ahead of her opponent. Nina excelled as a warrior because of these instincts and the speed at which she calculated every tactic.
Frustrated and afraid, the Mutant fell back on its own natural weapon: blind aggression. It foolishly raised its sword with both hands with the aim of striking at her like a hammer, to push through any defense with pure strength and determination.
Nina closed in under the arc of the blow and sliced it in the gut.
The wounded beast hunched over and tottered forward.
Nina did not hesitate. She brought the blade again. And again. And again.
Just as it dropped to the floor, two church windows smashed and both Oliver Maddock and Carl Bly jumped inside.
They found Nina hovering over the slain body of the Mutant and the little girl gaping in amazement at the woman who had outfought the terrifying brute.
“Well ain’t you just all that,” Bly quipped.
“We thought you might need some help,” Maddock added.
Nina, panting heavily, glanced over at the little girl and winked.
“We got it covered, right, honey?”
She stuttered in search of the right words and then burst, “That was awesome!”
12. New Winnabow
Trevor stood on the second floor balcony. The August sun had descended below the mountains hours before and a thin vale of clouds obscured the stars. He heard the lapping of the lake water against the pillars of the boathouse dock.
“I can feel you out there. What are you waiting for?”
–
After viewing the scene in the cavern outside of Blacksburg, Trevor and his son had returned to the estate.
The new Emperor-a title that felt awkward but aptly described the role he had played for five years-increased the number of Internal Security at the estate. Eagle patrol ships cruised overhead while squads of both human and K9 soldiers searched for threats.
Ashley deteriorated into a nervous wreck. Her father-Benjamin Trump-stayed by her side constantly with JB never out of his mother’s or grandfather’s sight.
Adding to his troubles, Trevor received word of the delay along the coast in North Carolina. He ordered Shepherd to bribe the leaders of New Winnabow with food, clothing, and medicines to allow the army to pass, but they rebuffed every offer.
Trevor then investigated an alternative route, perhaps even backtracking toward Wilmington for Rt. 133. However, reconnaissance found a pile of destroyed metal where a bridge should have been and a road in impassable condition.
No, the only feasible path went through New Winnabow and its resident idealists.
Gordon Knox offered several suggestions, the most polite of which was to fly the New Winnabow council to the countryside retreat The Empire had established outside of Honesdale, Pennsylvania for the insane “survivors” from the town of Jim Thorpe, the ones who lived in the webs of a brood of White-Terrors for a year. Those hostiles actually fed off fear and suffering like milking dairy cows.
Trevor often thought about the fate of those people. He thought about them whenever anyone suggested a pause in the fighting. Now he thought about them as he considered the pacifists of New Winnabow.
By the morning of Wednesday, August 26, it became apparent General Shepherd had hit a formidable roadblock, the likes of which none of them had encountered to date.
He hated leaving the estate with the threat from Blacksburg lurking in the shadows, but the great cause always came first and that cause called him to North Carolina. Intelligence indicated the Hivvans showed signs of reconstituting their strength; some enemy supply columns had made contact with their brethren inside the half-sealed pocket.
In other words, the clock ticked.
The people of New Winnabow went about their late afternoon business.
Farmers tended to crops. Some hunting parties scoured the swamp and woods while others cleaned kills already made. Entertainers prepared for that night’s performance of Taming of the Shrew in the outdoor theater. A doctor bid goodbye to a patient succumbing to illness. A maintenance man re-pointed a brick wall.
For the residents whose business brought them along Governor’s Road near the edge of town or who returned along Rt. 17 from fishing up in Town Creek, they saw a sight that had become familiar in recent days; the sight of the strange man in the General’s uniform.
On that particular afternoon, the General stood at the outskirts of town with Chief Robert Parsons and council member Elizabeth Doss, a tall woman with short black hair who represented the northwest district of the colony.
As they spoke, a woman in her late twenties approached the group. A six-year-old boy with straight dark hair and wide brown eyes accompanied her, nearly dragged along as his mother marched at a determined pace.
“Father? Is there anything I can help with?” She asked as she neared, but her voice sounded less helpful and more confrontational, as if intending to break up an argument.
Robert Parsons reacted, “Everything is fine. But since you are here, Sharon, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”
Sharon reluctantly stepped amidst the small group. The six-year-old boy gaped at the General with a mixture of awe and fear.
“This is General Jerry Shepherd. General, this is my daughter, Sharon.”
Shep mustered every ounce of chivalrous charm he could find and funneled it into a warm smile and a polite nod.
“Greetings, ma’am.”
She offered no charm. “Why are you still here, General?”
“Sharon! I apologize General, my daughter can be blunt.”
“Oh now don’t go apologizing,” Shepherd maintained his smile. “I tend to be blunt, too. I find it speeds things up.”
Shepherd addressed the woman while her son gazed at the grandfatherly officer. “I’m still here because we’re trying to work out a compromise; a deal that will work for everyone. Seems to me that’s all anybody wants, right?”