Someday Soon Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Deer

  Simon closed his eyes and inhaled, feeling the bottom of his lungs expand against his lower rib cage. He imagined the oxygen traveling through his lungs and into his bloodstream, pumping life into the far reaches of his organs: his brain, feet, even hair. He exhaled slowly.

  Breathing in I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out I know that I am breathing out.

  I am the wind. I am the rock. I am the tree, and my roots grow deep …

  The mantra played over in his thoughts for several breaths until his awareness was reestablished. His fingers moved off his knees and touched the grass beneath him, feeling the dirt floor, centering himself in time and place.

  Less than a yard away was the track. A depression in the soil no wider than an inch, with the same depth going down. Simon exhaled and moved to inspect the indentation once more. The soil was wet to the touch, but not so wet as to suggest the animal remained in the vicinity.

  The shock he first felt when seeing the print still surged through him. As he’d neared the shallow line of impressions, his footing went off balance, and he stepped on a scattering of crisp leaves that should have been avoided. Before proceeding, he stopped, sat, and attempted to slow his racing heart.

  A deer …

  Half of Alice’s revolving guards reported seeing movement of deer in the brush, but none of the reports ever turned up true. A Ranger would be sent to investigate only to find scattered tracks of rabbits, possums, or racoons. Deer had become so fabled that anything brown and blurred was recalled as being one. But all sightings were false. The small game would be stalked and killed nonetheless, and brought back to the town’s kitchen.

  Just an hour ago, a breathless Ranger came running up to Simon, still camouflaged with mud and charcoal, and exclaimed, “We got one. A real one.” Simon was led to the edge of the woods to investigate alone.

  Once readjusted, and feeling the print again with his mind cleared, Simon moved. Each slow step deliberate; touching down from the ball of his foot, to the outer arch, and then to his heel. He wore shoes made from single strips of leather to protect his skin, yet remain as quiet and soft-footed as possible. He scanned the horizon, taking stock of the entire distance through the wood line, looking for the slightest disturbance. A bent blade of grass indicated the direction of the animal, winding further into the woods toward the shade of large pine trees where the lawn was thick and dense.

  The sun flickering through the overbrush indicated that the early morning had made way for noon as Simon crawled over rocks and around the bases of tall maples and oaks. Always, he kept the horizon in view.

  Then he saw it by a small runoff creek from the reservoir. Its long neck craned down as its slender lips touched the water’s surface. The animal lifted its head, looking off in the distance. It was alone. A solitary deer in a world that had become inhospitable to its existence. Its ear flickered; sunlight reflected off a trail of water on the animal’s nose and mouth.

  Simon felt the stock of his rifle, envisioned his cheek against the cool wood grain, his vision down the barrel. Where had this animal come from? Were there more? Did it have a mate? There were no additional tracks, but that didn’t mean another wasn’t around.

  He breathed in and out, long and slow breaths.

  ***

  It grew late into the afternoon when Simon returned to the waiting scouts. Ben stood upright as he approached. “Well?” he asked, handing over a canteen.

  “Thanks,” Simon said, unscrewing the cap. “It was a deer all right. Followed it to the creek north of here.” He took a long sip, savoring the cool water as it coated his throat and filled his stomach.

  “And?”

  Simon shook his head. “The tracks vanished by the water.”

  Simon considered that Ben would know the soil near the creek was soft, and a deer’s hooves would sink easily. “I followed the trail to a field a quarter mile past the creek,” Simon added. “The ground was rocky. I lost the tracks.”

  Simon handed Ben his canteen, and the men walked to the north road, leading to Alice. Ben was an able hunter, but he appeared to believe the story, despite it seeming odd that the senior member of the Rangers, Simon Kalispell, had lost the trail of the most elusive and sought-after source of protein roaming the woods.

  As they neared Alice’s southern border, Ben called in their approach from his handheld radio. A few yards further, a guard waved them over. “So?” the guard asked.

  “No luck,” Simon said. “But there were tracks.”

  The guard’s eyes shot large. “My God,” he said. “They’re back?”

  “One’s back. We’ll have to wait to see if a herd is nearby.”

  The guard nodded. “Did you see it for sure?”

  “No. But the guard that reported the sighting was right, and Ben here, who’d been first sent out to investigate, was correct. The tracks belong to a deer.”

  The guard smiled. The news would spread fast, and Simon would have to stifle the men’s urges to hunt the animal. The deer was not a dragon of lore. It was not a fabled beast. Yet, he knew the hunters desired to claim the animal’s death as their own achievement. What chance did an endangered species have against the violent aspirations of humankind?

  More guards awaited Simon’s report by the gate. None were saddened by the news of the deer’s escape. Verification alone was enough to satisfy their craving, which was what Simon hoped. Some of the workers repairing the destroyed wall in the rear stopped to hear the story. “Tracks?” one said, wiping sweat from his forehead and leaving a greasy trail. “I’ll be damned.” The workers dispersed, talking amongst each other about the triumphant return of the deer.

  Many of the men were from Hightown, helping Alice recover after the battle. Only a few weeks ago, this same line of trenches had been manned by Karl Metzger’s vile soldiers. The people of Alice and Hightown were forced to destroy what was rightfully theirs—the guard towers, security gates, and walls—to eliminate the vermin infesting it.

  The process of returning Alice to a formidable and defensive town was going well, although proper healing was still far off. The people were betrayed. Their own leader, Nicholas Byrnes, had deceived them into allowing Karl Metzger’s Red Hands into Alice, to rot it from within. Both Nick and Karl were now dead. Simon himself was responsible for Karl’s demise, tricking him into the basement of Simon’s old house and blowing it to rubble. The fire that consumed the building left nothing more than ash. Sultan, his trusted officer, was also killed.

  Ben took an offered cigarette from the guard in the trench and asked, “Any news on the election?”

  The guard flashed a silver lighter. “Nothing yet. But you might want to head to town, results should be in any minute.” He gave Simon a knowing smile. “You’ll want to be there, I presume.”

  “Thanks,” Simon said.

  Ben accompanied Simon into town, then the men split up to clean themselves in their respective homes. Simon could hear the commotion in his apartment before he opened the door. The clacking of nails against the hardwood floor, a swinging tail banging into walls.

  “Hey, buddy-buddy,” he said to Winston as he stepped inside. His dog’s tail swayed in wide arches and his tongue lapped at Simon’s hand. Winston followed Simon to the bathroom, his rear torso limping along, and his nose pressed firmly into Simon’s thighs, smelling the trees, dirt, and faint animal scents from Simon’s foray.

  Simon scratched at Winston’s head as he washed the dirt and charcoal off his face and used a washcloth to scrub his chest and what he could reach of his back. He was careful not to splash any dirty water on Jeremy’s and Bethany’s toothbrushes. When he was reasonably clean, he dressed in a military jumpsuit and opened the front door for Winston to join him outside.

  “C’mon, boy,” he said, letting his dog hobble in front of him to sniff various patches of grass and greet the occasional resident.

  Lunch was served from the buffet line in the garage of
the firehouse, but few people were waiting with trays in hand. The gathered crowd seated or mingling on the lawn awaited news of the election to be delivered on the same stage where Nick Byrnes had been brutally executed.

  Simon veered through the crowd, sidetracked by the many hands that wanted to pet at Winston’s fur and tell him what a good dog he was.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” a young soldier said, kneeling next to Winston and scratching behind his floppy ear. “He’s such a good listener,” the young man said to Simon. “My old dog, he’d never be able to stay off leash like Winston does. I’d of lost him by now in a crowd like this.”

  Simon wished he’d brought the leash; not out of fear of Winston getting lost or running away, but despite what the young soldier said, in Winston’s older years he didn’t always listen like he used to. The war had aged his dog, if that were at all possible. Winston had been taken from his apartment by the Red Hands and locked in a room in Nick Byrnes’s mansion when the fighting broke out, where he’d endured the explosions and gunfire. When Simon found him, he was indeed the same dog; happy, smart, yet in the weeks following, Winston seemed to nap more frequently, and his energy level waned after shorter walks and hikes than he’d previously been accustomed to.

  Probably has nothing to do with the war, Simon thought. Winston was an old dog, after all. His years would add up … eventually … Simon shook the thought out of his head.

  “C’mon, boy, let’s find Jeremy and Beth.”

  “Jeremy’s near the stage.” The soldier motioned with his chin. “Good luck, sir. You have my vote.”

  “Thanks,” Simon said, feeling his cheeks redden at being called sir.

  He gave a short whistle and Winston snapped his head around to face him. As he neared the front of the crowd, he could see Jeremy sitting at a picnic bench not far from the stage.

  “Simon,” Jeremy said, seeing him approach. “Got Winston there?” He smiled and let his hand get licked.

  “He was locked in the house all day,” Simon said. “He needs some air.”

  “Of course you do, don’t ya, buddy?” Jeremy scratched all over Winston’s head, making the dog’s tail sway in a frenzy.

  Simon looked around. “Beth here?”

  “Haven’t seen her.”

  Simon nodded. She was probably still working on the western wall. She’d recovered fast from her terrible ordeal: being taken prisoner, drugged and chained to a bed deep in the depth of Nick’s mansion during the fighting. She’d seen the Red Hand’s method of interrogation firsthand. Made to watch the slow and methodical torture and dismemberment of her friend, Will Holbrook, and thinking it was her turn next on the surgical gurney. In the days following her release, once the strength returned to her body, she began laboring with the workers to repair the defenses. At night she would come home, blistered and worn thin, and sleep in the bed beside Simon. They would stay up late, holding each other tight, recounting the horrors they had endured, and then after a few hours of troubled sleep, she would be out the door, tools in hand.

  “You ready for your official title?” Jeremy asked.

  “I think the only reason anyone voted for me is because of Winston here. No one in Alice is more popular than him. He’s probably the reason my name got added to the ballot in the first place.”

  Jeremy smiled. “Ha! Your name got added to the ballot because you were next in line after Frank Morrow. And you’re going to win because of your abilities, not because of your dog.” Jeremy looked down at Winston’s alert eyes. “But you certainly help, don’t ya, buddy? Plus, Simon, the people look up to you.”

  Simon shrugged.

  “Don’t be modest. It was you who led the battle on Nick’s lawn. The people know that. They respect you. They saw you fighting alongside them—or, from what I’ve been told, way in front of them all, charging headfirst into bullet fire, as stupid as that is. You were put in charge of the Rangers after the battle for a reason. You’re the best scout in Alice. Hell, you’re the best scout I’ve ever met, and I’ve worked with hundreds of Navy Seals and special ops when I was deployed.”

  “Simon, Jeremy,” a voice called out from behind them. Simon turned to see Brian cutting through the crowd.

  “Hey, Brian. Carolanne with you?” Simon asked.

  “Na, it’s her shift at the infirmary.”

  Jeremy stood as Brian neared. His limp was minor, but he was still using the cane to get around. Winston ran up to greet him, his tongue bouncing out of the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t get up, I’m fine standing.”

  “I’ve got to stretch my legs anyway. I’ll be making a speech, either to thank everyone for their vote or to accept resignation, and still thank the crowd for their support while I served as acting general.”

  Brian took Jeremy’s offered seat. “You can go ahead and throw away that second speech. There ain’t a chance of you losing.”

  Jeremy found his pack of cigarettes and offered them around. Brian accepted one and borrowed Jeremy’s lighter. They were halfway through their cigarettes when three of Hightown’s ranking officers walked onto the stage. The crowd near the front turned to watch as the podium was moved to the center, and Lieutenant General Casey Edmonds adjusted the microphone. He tapped a finger on the windscreen, making a muffled noise over the speakers. The din of conversation lessened, and the man before the microphone spoke.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry to keep you all waiting. General Driscoll apologizes for not being able to attend the ceremony, but he’s needed in Hightown. He offers his blessings. Alice has and will continue to have the full support of Hightown so that both colonies continue to prosper.”

  Casey scanned the audience as he shifted the notes on the podium.

  “Before we get to the election results, I want to remind everyone that the ceremony on the battlefield of the Dragoons will take place tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. All residents are welcome to attend.”

  “Long overdue,” Jeremy whispered to Simon and Brian.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Simon said. Nick’s mansion had stood as a derelict heap since the hours following the battle. A whole wing had burned to blackened beams during the fighting, and the rest of the home was near collapse. Following the battle, the casualties from Alice and Hightown were gathered and placed ceremoniously in the trench line before the mansion. Backhoes filled in the graves with soil, and bags of wildflower seeds sat ready on the sidelines to cover the soft earth. The corpses of the Red Hands and Dragoons, along with undetermined limbs and parts, were dumped in heaps inside Nick’s mansion. Plans for the ceremony were to douse the structure with gasoline and set it ablaze. Once the timbers cooled and were bulldozed over, the seeds would be planted in lieu of tombstones.

  “Without further ado,” Casey announced over the speakers, “let’s keep conversation to a minimum until all the results are given.”

  An officer beside him rifled through a stack of folders and handed a sheet to Casey. The lieutenant general glanced down and quickly spoke out the names of the newly appointed officials. Supply and management. Master gardener. The new head of urban planning, Ricardo Ruiz, had worked under Martin Howard on the previous administration and was an advocate of Martin’s project for solar power.

  “Rangers,” Casey bellowed, looking down at the paper. “Simon Kalispell.”

  Brian reached out and patted Simon’s shoulder. Simon could feel a thousand eyes staring into the back of his head, and he got the urge to be far away, out in the woods, alone, scouting for the deer.

  Casey continued with the Guards, and then he said, “And that brings us to our final position. General in charge of Alice.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I am happy to announce that the same man whom General Driscoll gave temporary power to after the war will continue to lead. Jeremy Winters, will you please join me on stage?”

  The audience began to clap as Jeremy walked up the stairs leading to the stage. Once the applause died down, Jeremy reached i
n his pocket for a folded piece of paper and began smoothing it out on the podium. Near his feet was the deep red stain of blood, soaked into the dry wood platform, from where Nick and his officers were executed.

  ***

  In the weeks it took for Alice to begin to heal with Hightown’s help, many surviving Red Hands had fled and managed to escape the combined colonies’ armed forces. Some perished in the woods, injured from the fighting, or lost, starved and dehydrated, without the aid of a map. But many had made it to safety far in the north, where a large force remained, veiled from the prying eyes of enemy scouts in an area known simply as the docks.

  One such survivor had endured explosions, fires, bullets, and betrayal. He marched to the gates surrounding the docks in good health and appearance, bewildering the guards who had presumed him dead, and stood gawking in amazement as if the man were a mythical deity returned to life.

  It did not take long for Karl Metzger to regain his control over his Red Hand army and add to their numbers the dock workers, who were eager to follow his command so they could reconquer the colonies of Hightown and Alice, to pillage, eat; survive. If not for Karl’s reemergence, they would have starved under the prior command, withered to skin and bones. All cheered as the rightful king took his throne once more, and proclaimed to the crowd that their troubles were over. Full rations were to be issued at once, and soon, with Hightown and Alice under their control, there would be no need to fight further for food, water, and fuel. They would possess it all. The world would be theirs.

  As Karl walked down the trident-shaped pier extending from the mainland, he cut through the cluster of soldiers examining their gear, counting munitions, and cleaning their weapons.

  “You smell that?” he called to Liam walking beside him.

  “Smell what, sir? The smoke?” Liam spat a trail of tobacco juice to the floor and pointed his chin toward a circle of men gathered around a small flame in a metal bucket where something long dead was cooking. “Want me to tell them to cut it out?”