“I feel things,” she did the explaining for herself. “I have a very natural-oh, what would I call it? Sensitivity.”
Trevor-the man who spoke to dogs, periodically met with a mysterious old man in the woods, and had magically gained access to a library of genetic memories-asked in a skeptical tone, “What do you mean? A, like, psychic or something?”
“Father!”
Cai found that amusing. She exhaled a soft, comforting laugh.
“Nothing so exotic. Sometimes I feel things. Call it an understanding of people. Of things.”
“She sells herself short,” Armand said although the sneer in his voice showed that he did not like having to explain to the American. “She has had dreams of things to do, things to come. And she can tell a good heart from a bad one.”
Trevor remembered Stonewall McAllister. A vision had led him to the lakeside estate during that first year.
Cai jumped, “And Armand, what would you say if I tell you these two have good hearts? Would you stop projecting your frustrations onto them? Would you treat them as honored guests?”
Armand fidgeted but held his tongue.
The Lady then removed her hand from Jorgie’s cheek and addressed the boy in a soft one, “You are a very special child. But you know that, don’t you?”
He nodded. His eyes held the same fascination for her as she did for him; the same wonder.
She said, “I have thought about you before.”
Trevor asked, “You knew he would be coming?”
She corrected, “I knew he should come. Not that he would.”
“Trevor,” Alexander tried to move the conversation in a more purpose-orientated direction. “You say your army is in a battle for its life. You say you do not have the forces to spare to help us right now. To be blunt, why is it you came here? Why did you need to see us?”
Trevor realized his next words would cause a stir, but he had no choice other than to say them.
“Because if The Empire falls, all of humanity loses.”
Grumbles and snaps in a variety of languages circulated the room. Armand appeared ready to burst.
“It is not always about America!”
“We survived without you, we will keep on surviving!”
Alexander stepped forward and raised his hands to calm the commotion. The ‘knights’ quieted but the scowls and narrowed eyes suggested they did not calm.
Trevor sidestepped Alexander and addressed the gathering, “This is not about America, or Europe, or Asia or whatever. It is about our species, and that means a lot more than you might think.”
“If you are destroyed,” Sir Jef observed, “then we will remain in hiding until our strength returns. We spent years stockpiling fuel and raw materials. What we imported from you has been a great help, yes, but we will continue on. We will survive.”
“No, you will not,” but it was not Trevor’s voice that said those words. It was Jorgie’s.
A hush fell over the room. Lady Cai appeared quite pleased with JB. She touched his cheek again briefly, then rose to her feet and addressed the group.
“You keep calling him arrogant, but I think we have enough arrogance in this room ourselves. We still use names that have no meaning any more: England, Wales, Germany, Ireland. Pride can be a source of strength, but not vanity. Set that aside and listen to him. I am sure we can teach Mr. Stone a few things. But I am equally sure he has come here to share with us important information.”
Alexander asked, “What is it you expect from us?”
Trevor slowly surveyed the room, making eye contact with each of the knights and when he came to Armand he offered the answer that that man craved as surely as Nina Forest craved it.
“I expect you to fight.”
14. Scorched Earth
The southern half of the National Beef processing plant existed only as ruins: a few standing exterior walls resembling cheap sets on a stage play, jumbles of felled steel beams, collapsed walkways, and melted machinery. Like Air Force bases and bivouacked armies, The Order saw food production facilities as targets for their bombers and artillery. And while the processing plant had never reached its pre-Armageddon levels of output, it had distributed thousands of tons of meat products for The Empire’s population prior to its most recent evacuation.
In contrast to the southern half, the northern half of the plant remained fairly intact albeit open to the elements. From the shadows there came Nina Forest running through the beams of dawn’s first light between debris piles and darting behind an overturned, rusted conveyor belt just as a large explosion sent shrapnel and dirt flying all into the air.
She did not stop, however, and neither did Vince Caesar who paralleled her charge a dozen yards to her left as they advanced toward Route 400 on the southeastern edge of Dodge City, Kansas.
Working in unison, the two sprinted from what would have been the outer wall of the meat plant and across what had once been the employee parking lot.
Two more explosions tried to halt their progress. One sent the remains of a Volkswagen spinning over Nina’s head, another caused an ancient light poll to bend then topple.
Nina leapt over a heap of metal and rubber that might have once been a Chevy S-10 pickup and raced toward a jackknifed 18-wheeler so fast that her momentum only stopped when she slammed shoulder-first into the toppled truck’s roof. Another explosion-just six feet in front of her-let fly a lethal halo of metal and rock.
She huffed several deep breaths, nearly gagging in the process: the stench of spoiled meat loitered over the entire complex making her stomach churn.
Her black BDU’s showed the signs of four days’ worth of guerrilla fighting behind enemy lines; mud and blood stains and a frayed utility belt. The glimmer of the sword strapped to her thigh seemed dulled through overuse.
She fit her black beret a tighter on her head and then looked over to Vince. He huffed, too, while kneeling in the cover of a rusting dumpster.
Next she glanced around the front grille of the dead truck and took stock of the opposition. The enemy supply convoy stood still on Route 400-also known as East Trail Street-exactly as the ambush plan anticipated. The explosives had turned the lead vehicle into a jumble of wires, veins, muscles, and wheels while digging a deep trench across the pavement.
The second vehicle had done as anticipated, too, in swerving into the field to the south in order to circumvent the disabled leader. The landmines there blasted four of the eight wheels off the boat-like truck and left it sideways with its contents of various sized spheres spilling out.
Three vehicles remained, two of which were more of the greenish canoe-like transports with eight wood-looking (but not) wheels.
The third-the one in the middle-presented the greatest challenge. This escort car wore shell-like armor and rode on a cushion of air very close to the ground. On top rested a circular turret with a small barrel that fired high-velocity rounds capable of ripping open the best ballistic armor. To the rear of the tank-sized craft swiveled a tube that delivered explosive shells at the attackers.
Six of the robed monks with their swords and forearm-mounted pellet guns took cover to either side of the escort tank while one of the gray-skinned Ogre fellows stood blazingly in the open, prepared to take on all who dared.
The turret saw Nina peaking and opened fire. She pulled her head back just as a series of shots ricocheted off the MACK grille.
She closed her eyes and drew a tactical map in her mind from memory. She saw the lot of broken cars between her and the road. She knew they needed to keep the enemy’s attention for Carl Bly’s sake; any moment he would reveal his position in the tree line to the convoy’s southeast and would be easy prey for the turret should his Javelin miss.
Nina heard the sound of Oliver Maddock’s high-powered sniper rifle firing from somewhere among the ruins. She knew if he pulled the trigger he most certainly found a kill. But she also knew those high-powered rounds would not pierce the belly of the Ogre from distance, so he must have killed a monk.