Charlie Company by Mike Kay

I

Silence reigned. The firefight was over. Red and Cade emerged from their bunkers, while Charlie covered them with his Drag. The Genos weren’t all that bright, migrant hordes and inner city gangsta whipped up in cannibalistic frenzy, but they did like to play dead at times. Charlie learned the hard way to be ready to provide them with new holes.

Red and Cade were collecting goodies. With practiced hands soon there were small piles of weapons, ammo and rations. What was left with the corpses was the cooked meat. Everybody in Charlie Company knew what it was, and avoided it. The sensitives of Farm Hill whispered those stories about cannibals, some going way back, old legends, and they were all about madness and crazed lusts. Nope, Charlie Company didn’t eat that cooked flesh.

Cade let out a grunt. He held up one corpse by the neck, and shook it. The skin was pale gray, surgically fitted with black iron gears and wires, a Machine Head, the one with the electric brain who led the genocide horde, at the calling of the Machine God, now quite dead. Charlie spit on the ground. If the Heads were in, this meant that Charlie Company was on their radar screen.

Head’s band had been maybe twenty cannibals. Charlie ran the memory over in his mind, the last Geno leaping away as Charlie caught him with a textbook shot, right through center mass, dropped him like a rock. He had to suppress a smile.

Charlie switched on the handset to Lioness. “Report.”

“No visible enemy movement, sir. No casualties. Lioness awaiting orders.”

“Assume condition yellow.” He clicked off the hand set. He had learned from Col. Cooper that colour conditions were useful, and fast. Charlie tried his damnedest to keep the alpha females out of the fight. He knew Farm Hill needed them, their skills and leadership. He couldn’t afford to lose either of them, but they would not stand down, so he did what he figured was the next best thing, he gave them glass, including his own, and made them The Eyes.

They were good at it.

He turned his attention back to the Genos. When the collapse finally came, it was ugly…Fugly. Nobody was really ready for it, they had no idea how fast and how complete it was going to be until it hit. The worst, as far as Charlie Company was concerned, were the genocide squads, Genos. Humanimals, Elle called them, and she was right. They filed their teeth into saw blades, and after they were done raping and killing, they got down to eating. The Heads were their leaders, who always carried the best guns, because like the Commissars of Communism, they cut down any of their own that faltered or tried to flee.  This one was no different, his AK had three positions on the safety-full auto capable, and the gun had very little wear.

Charlie Company would put it to good use.

Greg wandered over, first one out of the Farm Hill shelter, they all called it Community. He was an older man, grey hair and white beard, but in pretty good shape. “Did anybody in the company get hurt…besides you?”

Charlie gave him a questioning look, and Greg pointed to his helmet. Reaching up, Charlie unbuckled it, to make note of the furrow across the right temple. Charlie didn’t usually wear a bucket, unless he was using their incredibly precious night vision. Kevlar was pretty useless against any real bullet, so it wasn’t much more than a mount for the white phosphorous goggles, but this time it saved him.

“Looks like this cat has used up another life”, he joked, “with a few still left in reserve.”

A moment of silence.

Greg broke it, fidgeting.

“Captain Clark set the defenses right”, Greg observed.

“Yes he did”, Charlie acknowledged. Their positions were heavily dug in, and roofed, chosen for difficult approach, and enfilade fire. Enemies would naturally be channeled into a tapering field, the closer they got, the less room they had to maneuver. This last Geno squad had charged right up the approach, mostly with long knives and Glocks. They charged towards Community, their warped minds eager to commit depravity, and they died.

Charlie never let himself indulge in moralizing. He lived in the moment, doing what was necessary, no less, no more. It was the genocide squads that brought this war to Farm Hill, not the other way around. He didn’t want the fucking war, never asked for it, but he wasn’t going to run from it either. Still sometimes he did wonder if it would be better-if…He shook his head to dispel the thought.

Barely 200 meters stood between the dug in defense line and Community. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best compromise between movement and communication, using the land to best advantage. Cade was already hand signaling Little Chuck to bring out the meat wagon.

L.C. wasn’t Charlie’s blood. He was a young survivor from a Geno raid that took out his mom and dad. Like so many at Farm Hill, he was overrun by this war. L.C. never put a comb through his unruly mop of blonde hair, and sported that gangly early teen look that made him seem slower and less coordinated than he truly was. He had taken to Charlie, which was kind of uncomfortable, because Charlie figured he sucked at being a dad, but he took L.C. on, and they both did their best, which sure wasn’t perfect, but better than not trying at all.

Charlie swung the Drag over a shoulder, and stepped over to Red and Cade, who finished their searching, and were just standing around, breathing. After a firefight, there was always the downturn of energy, the elation of victory only lasted so long, and coming back to earth, one just had to meet life without doing anything for a time.

Red broke the silence first. The look from his blue eyes was hard and cold. “Fucking Genos.”

“Were” agreed Cade.

“What’s our ammo score?” Charlie asked.

Red gestured down to a decent sized pile. “Some twelve gauge, a bunch of nine mil, some of it with nickel cases-oh, and this’ll make you happy, Commander; several brand new boxes of seven six two that fits your pet Drag.”

“Seven six two-?” Charlie completed the thought, “so did they have a Moisin?”

Charlie was referring to a battle proven bolt action rifle that served, among others, with the Finnish military in the Winter War. The preferred arm of the famous sniper White Death.

“Yep.” Red held up the carbine. “Might be useful still.”

The meat wagon appeared, literally a rough wooden flatbed on mismatched wheels pulled by Bessie, the mild mannered quarter horse. Greg and the other able bodied non combatants worked to pile the dead cannibals up on the wagon. It would take a few trips. There would be no ceremony, just a jump to a place beyond perimeter, where the bugs and carrion eaters would feed. It was all the Genos would get from Charlie Company, except for the Machine Head. His corpse would be hung to sway in the wind, an offering to the old gods, and a warning…

II

Lioness spotted movement on the north perimeter that evening. It had been a couple a few days, and the sun hung low over the hard work in the fields, removing weeds and pulling pests. L.C. led the younger kids who made a game out of finding tomato worms, and putting them in a jar to use as bait for fishing. The tense moment passed as the motion was identified as Zeke and Dale, returning just in time for Carol’s best bean stew.

Zeke spoke over mouthfuls, a raw boned man, with a full black beard. He had quit shaving at some point, and never picked it up again.

“Dale an me, we trekked up river and down. Figured that’d be the best chance to catch a gander, and maybe find out who was still alive. That old map was useless. No nationalists nowhere. The rotting towns are all filled with the howls of gangsta, if they ain’t totally empty. Didn’t see no running vehicles, no boats, an no planes-.”

“But we did see somethin’, tell ‘em the rest, Zeke”. Dale was looking excited, and Zeke more than a little agitated.

“There’s this group we did make contact with, Commander. Calls thesselves Americans.”

“Now that sure is imaginative, “piped in Jane. Jane had a strong undiplomatic streak, typical of alpha females. As the second in the two woman Lioness team, she was used to calling it as she saw it.

Zeke, to his credit, didn’t take the bait. He just let those words fall and went on.

“Them Americans’re a really big group, Commander. They didn’t let us see much, but it’s plain as day that they have a lot of territory and so many people that they have hard rules on who can enter. For one thing, no migrants, you gotta be born here, and once you’re accepted in-it’s for life.”

“Well that cancels out the Skinks as part of their group, but what about the Cannibals and the Heads?” Jane prodded.

Charlie just let the alpha female lead, partly because he was wondering the same thing, but also because Jane had a different approach than he did, and sometimes it turned up new and interesting things.

This time it was Dale who chimed in, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “Americans shoot Skinks on sight. Like Zeke said, no foreign born. Watched ‘em take out a patrol that was tailing us. They know about the Heads too. They say the Heads are what the nationalists turned into, they ain’t no nationalists no mo.”

Jane gave him a sharp look. Her blue grey eyes flashed.

“And so what do they think of us, because there is something that happened between you and them, and you better tell us now!”

“We wuz in their camp, Jane.”

Zeke cleared his throat, and cut off Dale.

“Kinda their guests, kinda their prisoners, Commander. They knew we wuz from outside their normal zone of operations. After they lit up that Skink tail we had attracted, they wanted to know all about us. Turns out some of their crew had already heard of us here at Farm Hill. They knew we kicked ass on those filed teeth. Seems we got some of the heat off of them.”

Jane had relaxed some at that. Her muscles seemed less taught. She seemed to be less ready to pounce, but her wild spirit always got Charlie’s heart beating. He recognized his attraction, and his desire, and taking a deep breath, he shifted focus to matters at hand.

“Three questions and I don’t care who answers. One, what do you mean a big group. Two, what did you tell them about us-and three how did you get back here?”

“They want a diplomatic meeting. They know we’re pretty self sufficient, and that we accept new members on different terms than theirs. We didn’t tell ‘em anything much, just that we have herbalists and sensitives, and some pretty hard bitten vets. They let us go, cuz they say even if we’re different, maybe we can help each other.” Dale ran a hand through his close cropped hair.

The long piercing note on the trumpet broke up the conversation.

Andrea burst in through the door, her pre-teen legs carrying her at amazing speed. Her dark eyes were wide, and she was gasping for breath. “GENOS!” She screamed.

Another trumpet solo tore through the silence.

Charlie Company quickly mustered for action.

III

Commander Charles A. Linesey had inherited his position. The armed faction of Farm Hill had agreed to call themselves Charlie Company on their own, it wasn’t his idea, but it was their way of recognizing their condition in this life, accepting him, and belonging to something they had some allegiance to, some place to hang their hats on, and their hearts.

Everyone in Charlie Company was well drilled by now, and Lioness was out first for Intel. All non combatants dove into the deep bunker, and opened the locker that held the Glocks and Berettas in case of a last, final stand. For their part the grunts had already checked their gear and were heading for positions. Charlie was glad to have Dale and Zeke back, never had too many able bodied. They were like the Shutz Staffeln of old, those men who wore ancient Runes on their uniforms-from a million different backgrounds, with a million different histories, always outnumbered, fighting for what they believed in.

The light was still strong, even as the sun bent almost to the curve of the earth. Charlie made his way to the Raven point, high up in the trees that gave a 360 degree view, if one wanted it. The handset crackled as Lioness reported, Genos on coming, no flanking, just a smash mouth frontal assault. He found them easily, all wearing their colours of black and green-gangsta. Most had trench maces- clubs studded with nasty things, and handguns they waved overhead as they screamed, but some had long arms, wielded by faces that scanned this way and that for targets.

A group of about eight broke off to cut down the Head who blew in the wind. They stripped off the corpse’s shirt, and fixed it on a stick as a banner. The mob had a small amount of discipline, as they formed into three separate lines, the last line with the banner, a stooped man, clearly barking orders.

With a loud low cry they charged up past perimeter, gaining speed as they hit the restriction. Charlie shouted the order to open fire, and all bedlam broke loose in a fury. The first rank thinned considerably, but the survivors rushed on, firing pistols, bolstered by the second rank that merged in to reinforce their rush towards Community.

Charlie knew he was there to add support fire in the clutch where it was needed, but he was concerned about those long guns in the rear, and the searching eyes that scanned defenses carefully. His scope perfectly zeroed, he sent heavy seven sixty twos into the ranks of those marksmen, his Drag cracking and bucking with authority.

The Drag was not as pinpoint accurate as the bolt action Moisin, but it was much faster. He had dropped three as the last rank crashed into the position held by Dale and Zeke. He fired, and fired again, his big bullets doing tremendous damage, when a motion in the distance drew him. Across the meadow and away from the pond, T-shit leader and a group of his men were fleeing. He was only momentarily torn, instead of sending them a parting gift, he focused back to the immediate conflict, perhaps on a hunch, and he was glad he did.

The tall gangsta burst through the din in front of him. His black eyes were rimmed in red, and below them his dark face broke into an evil grin of filed teeth. His carbine came up all too fast, an AK variant with a fat barrel coming around to aim down on Charlie. The smiling enemy mashed a sausage sized finger upon the trigger, and had Charlie dead to rights, but nothing happened. The smile turned to frozen gape as Charlie’s bullet half a heartbeat later ripped through his chest, and took his life away.

Charlie kicked the big corpse away, to expose the gun that lay upon its left side, no longer held by those giant hands. He noted the safety selector was locked into the full “up” position, preventing the gun from firing.

IV

Dale lay, heavily bandaged upon the cot, the bleeding from his wounded shoulder finally under control. Jeannie and Danny had worked feverishly, and amazingly gotten him stable. Charlie thought that their medical knowledge and skill was priceless.

“You are going to live, Dale, so don’t get any ideas.” Charlie was making a statement of will.

“Yeah,” grumbled the wounded man. “Yeah.”

“So don’t be an asshole, and do what you’re told.”

“Yes sir.”

Charlie decided not to press anything, and turned to leave, when Dale grabbed him with his good arm. “They’re sending a diplomatic team for the meeting.”

Charlie pulled up a makeshift stool, and hunkered down next to Dale. It was clear he wanted to spill.

“It was the second day when they let us out of custody. They asked us a load of questions, sometimes the same ones, over and over again, then they gave us some food, and asked some more, and I told them I was just a Rifleman from Charlie Company trying to find out if anyone human was left alive. Zeke, he din’t give them much either, but they made us draw our Farm Hill location on the map, and they nodded together as if they thought it was right, maybe some kind of test we managed to pass…sent us outside with some provisions and ammo where our gear was waiting. They said expect a detail to arrive soon because they wanted a parley with the leader of Charlie Company-”

He broke off starting to cough, and Charlie put his hand on that good shoulder and told him to rest. He did fine, both him and Zeke, more than anyone could have asked. Charlie dug in his pocket, and found what he was searching for, and brought out a gold pin with red edges and a white star in the middle. He pinned it onto Dale’s bandage, stood up and saluted, observing Dale’s questioning look.

“Your Charlie Company combat patch, soldier.”

And those who know understand the tears in Dale’s eyes, that there is one award no man ever decries. One award cherished above all others, even those fancy medals with oak leaves and ribbons, and that is the rugged combat patch.

Dale saluted back with his good arm.

V

“Thanks for crafting up that combat patch, Louisa. Good idea, I think it helped Dale.”

He almost added, ‘I know it helped me.’

Louisa for her part just nodded, a little too quickly, to make it seem nervous and strange. She always tried to hide her face in that cascade of curly dark hair. She found an old tin, and lifting the lid, produced several more white star pins, just like Dale’s.

“Y-Y-y-you t-t-t-take the-EM” she stuttered.

Against all odds, Louisa survived the damage the Genos had given her when she wandered into Farm Hill half dead and bleeding. She was one of their sensitives, and she knew certain things, not to mention that she had quite a flair for sewing and weaving. The award was all her idea, and it was just what Charlie Company needed.

Louisa suddenly looked up, staring over Charlie’s left shoulder. He saw the scars on her cheeks that just missed her eyes. A moment later, Greg appeared behind him, and she quickly looked down. Charlie got the impression she had expected him.

“Hi, Louisa”, Greg murmured softly. “Can I borrow the Commander for a moment?”

“S-S-s-sure,” she nodded, and busied herself with her kit.

Charlie thanked Louisa again, who gave him a haunted look. She was making the effort to be a working piece of Community, and with the combat patch she had just done that-in spades.

Charlie followed Greg up the wooden stairs, out into the open air. Greg made sure there was no one near, as he stopped next to the greenhouse, several paces away from the pasture gate. Greg drew himself up, standing as straight as he could, and saluted tolerably well.

“Commander, sir, I’m offering myself as a replacement for Dale.”

Charlie nodded. He tended towards blunt speech, today was no exception.

“We need replacements, Greg, but you are not one of them.”

Greg acted as if he had expected that response. Greg had found Farm Hill when Captain Clark was still alive. He wandered in, strapped into a huge homemade sack, leading his miniature pack pony. In those days, which seemed a lifetime ago, he carried all kinds of trade goods, from cups and clothes, to tools, reading glasses and more. Greg wandered up with a big smile, ready to trade, and wound up staying, being really good at farming.

Traders need to have sharp eyes, and little escaped Greg’s notice.

“In one of those hauls, I saw a bolt action rifle. I know my way around those. I hunted when I was young.”

Charlie nodded again.

“Greg, bagging a deer is one thing, but shooting men who want to kill you-well let’s just say it’s crazy.”

Greg’s white beard bristled, as he stuck out his chin.

“Commander, it was Captain Clark who made a place for me. I’ve seen him and all those others die. I can’t just stand by and let this killing happen, without doing something.”

Charlie understood, but he knew how good intentions without training could easily become a liability. Still, Charlie Company had already lost too many, and it was now to the point where attrition was eroding their capability, and for that Charlie had no answer.

“The bolt gun is yours, Greg. I’m assigning you to Lioness, if you think you can make long shots, they will direct you to thin hostiles before we come into their effective range. I’m talking around eight hundred meters.”

Their eyes met and held. There was sadness in Greg’s gaze, but a determination that didn’t waver.

“I’ve hit out past one thousand, sir.”

“Welcome to Charlie Company, Rifleman Greg.”

Greg snapped a quick salute, and Charlie responded in kind.

VI

The graveyard was off from the back pasture, and into the woods. The great trees stretched their long arms out to make a latticework of shadows. Birds sang and insects buzzed amid the intermittent breeze. Since the collapse there were now eleven new, and one older grave, marked with carved wooden sculptures.

Captain Clark’s grave was easy to spot, as his mound was topped with a section of oak that was carved into an Eagle. The Cap’n famously stated that Farm Hill was as far as he was ever going to run, and he was going to fight the Genos to his final breath. Charlie stood before his grave, his battered helmet in the crook of an arm.

“Well sir, you were good for your word, and you were a wall against our enemies. But now the Heads know we’re here, and there’s all these others to think about. The raids don’t stop sir. Maybe it is time we packed up and hit the road, looking for a better future.”

“Which is where?”

Charlie turned at the voice. Jane stood there, regarding him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were deep, it wasn’t even clear what colour they were.

“Go where?”

“I can buy us time, Jane, for Farm Hill to find a better place. Besides, rearguard duty suits me.”

Jane moved closer, staring directly into his eyes.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

He could feel her presence, and his attraction to her was growing stronger. He discovered the line of her chin was beautiful.

“Someplace safe.”

She laughed, and her voice was music.

So, we are going to leave for a place no one knows, and you’ll hold off the Genos until we get to this somewhere, for however long it takes. You really, seriously think that’ll work?”

There was something about her rich brown hair, catching in the wind, and stirring across her back, something about the curves beneath her uniform. He was finding it harder to think as she moved very close, holding his gaze with hers.

“Maybe.”

He could count the tiny freckles across her nose, and the frankness in her expression, and he forgot all about what he was saying.

“I want all my blues to be counted when my time is up.” She said. “I want my efforts to matter, and to live in a good place.” She tossed her hair. “We have everything here. I don’t want to give it up for a maybe.”

She spun immediately on her heel and she stepped easily away, pausing to turn at the edge of the graveyard, regarding him through the dance of her flowing mane. ‘No matter where we go, we are going to be fighting.”

And she was gone.

He stood there in the intermittent breeze, just breathing.

There had been all kinds of predictions about collapse. Lots and lots of jaw jacking, and some of it came true. The rich were of course, immediately hunted. Their arrogant indifference pretty much destroyed any chance they might have had at saving themselves. It was the guillotine and gallows, and they went there begging for their useless lives-screaming. Charlie left at the height of the looting. It was only him and Captain Clark, and a few others who fought their way out of the burning urban blight, Bill and Tater, John, and Steve who made it far enough to find a grave at the edge of the pavement, thanks to that bullet. That was all of them, switching to moving mostly at night, on foot, to avoid detection, slipping away from the grasp of the megacity.

He thusly bypassed most of the carnage of the society devouring itself, of the wreckage, and the ruin and the massive death toll with so few decent stories. It was a blur, how they wandered, holding tightly to their humanity, discovering the last old man and his shotgun holding out at Farm Hill, now occupying the oldest grave in the cemetery, after fighting the Genos shoulder to shoulder with Cap’n Clark and what was to become Charlie Company.

Jane was right, he didn’t have the vaguest idea where they could go from here.

So the nationalists had become the cyborg cultists who led the gangs of cannibals across the land, looking for fights and subsequent eating. Was there possibly some place away from this waste and self destructive purge of humanity?

Charlie looked up at the sky.

VII

The handset crackled, it was Elle and for the first time her voice faltered, as she described the huge black wave speeding across the meadow, making for Community. Up at Raven point it was clear the horde had split into three massive blobs, a pincer attack with a group in reserve.

Greg had the Moisin cracking as Lioness directed his shooting, and in the distance he could see Genos were falling. The split mobs were huge, their numbers in the upper dozens. Even from this far they stank of vengeance, jealousy, and hatred.

Charlie saw Dale emerge from the deep bunker, ammunition in his good arm, as he made his way to Greg and Lioness. The ragged mob attacked there with disregard for any tactics other than rage and speed, and immediately crashed into the pits that were dug with bungee sticks set twenty feet below. Captain Clark had them prepared, in case of this type of flanking maneuver. They had gone unused until today, where the screams of the dying were extinguished by more bodies piling upon their sharpened points as Greg’s Moisin, and Lioness’ AR’s cut into them without mercy.

The second group arrived at approach, blind to the first groups’ fate. They were shoulder to shoulder and rank after rank, and as they died they were held up by the others. They moved like the sea, and they swarmed and eddied over Charlie Company. The deafening cracks of the guns were followed by running streams of blood as bodies piled upon bodies lay twitching.

A huge shout erupted and Charlie saw the third group rush in, directly into his main defenses. Lioness was screaming into the handset, and a quick glance revealed Dale blazing away with his pistol as a group got past them and made directly for Community.

Charlie Company was overrun, and the Genos were now rushing in every direction, thinking the battle was done, even as Charlie and Greg never stopped firing. He was shouting for Lioness to regroup at the forest, to save themselves while they could, as he saw Jane charging directly for Community. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hair was pulled back under her tan camo cap, and her AR-15 was blazing.

Charlie saw a group of several Genos taking aim at the bunker held by Cade, and he ate his thinking, instead shooting them down in no particular order. It was then that he saw the lumbering Machine Head, and his tight group of commissars creeping up the approach, automatic rifles stringing together a cacophonic symphony.

Discipline Held at the bunker line as Red and Cade dumped round after round into hostiles. Lioness communication was cut, and he hoped for the best, but aside from some small Geno groups, the problem was the Head with his retinue advancing up the approach. Explosions erupted, and with a start Charlie understood that grenades were being tossed by Genos.

He had only that moment as a wave followed by searing pain and the high pitched shriek that erased every sound but that agonizing relentless scream. He regained his feet, and noted his blood was flowing.  Out of his single good eye he held the scope up and killed every last commissar. Wobbling slowly to approach, he saw the ruined bunker that had been Zeke’s, and the smoke and the blood that turned the earth to mud, and he found the Head, searching for a fresh magazine. Fixing bayonet, with the barbaric edge provided by Red’s honing skills he charged at the Head who looked up at him suddenly.

The black iron gears worked as the maw opened to release an ape like bellow. He threw down his useless gun, and he tried to get up and run, but his foot was pinned by the dead body of one of his men. Red’s honed edge cut into flesh and gears and wires. The head began screaming as its power pack started glitching with sizzles and burnt wires and a small fire. Charlie’s last cogent sight was the Machine Head dying.

The void is an empty, lightless place. There is nothing in the void. Experiencing the void is the truth of nothingness, even the self dissolves. It lies at the bottom of a huge funnel, and one travels into it by going down, down, and down. It is a steep slope, but once past the veil it is as if nothing exists, or ever has, much less ever will.

VIII

Farm Hill languished lazily in the brilliant sun. The buildings looked more like some natural occurrence than anything created by the now dead society. Starved for right angles, they were being reclaimed by nature.

Fields sprawled with ripe greenery, separated by dilapidated vine encrusted fence lines, the favourite perch for a plethora of birds. The graveyard enclosed by the arms of the forest rested quietly in the latticework shade.

Energetic colts shook their manes, looking a bit like Bessie, and Black Angus grazed next to the line of the forest. Here and in the hollow near the pond, the fodder grew rich and thick.

Jane felt a kick, and placed her hands on her belly. Her baby already showed signs of a strong spirit, she thought. Returning to the graves, she paid her last respects quietly. L.C. was loping up, his long legs carrying him easily. His long blonde hair was meticulously combed, streaming behind him as he made his made his way up to her.

“Jane,” he breathed a little excitedly.”Company! A detail of men carrying white flags, and another, a blue field surrounded in red with a single white star in the middle! Do you think it’s the Americans?”

Jane tossed her mane and fixed L.C. in her blue grey gaze. “We’ll see.”

She left the cemetery with L.C., winding along the path that led around the roughly octagonal greenhouses, to the porch that resembled a cave, with an overhang of branches, held up by tress that were living pillars. She saw that farm hill had its own small delegation, Elle, Cade and Red, patiently standing, awaiting a group carrying flags, clad in blue and grey, that was incoming.

She could hear the words of greeting as the details met, and the obligatory small talk, shaking of hands and nodding. She sent Andrea off to fetch the sun tea and cups, and could hear the clear voice of Elle instructing the newcomers about Farm Hill, with Cade and Red watching.

Jane mounted the stairs and reached down to the man who sat silently in his chair. Her touch on his shoulder brought a scarred hand up to gently linger upon hers. He smiled as he fixed her with his one good eye, the other hidden behind the embroidered scarf Louisa had made him. He stood without a sound as a severe looking man led his detail up the steps, and offered a greeting.

“Good day, Sir and Madam, my name is Alexander Dewey, and I am here to represent, in official diplomatic duty as requested by the president of the Americans, Mr. John R. Abercrombie, an offer of friendship. It is my duty to meet with the brave and stalwart people of the Farm Hill community.”

The man with the scarf that barely concealed his many scars and missing eye extended his hand in greeting.

“Welcome to Farm Hill, Mr. Dewey. You must have travelled far, please accept our hospitality.”

Chairs were brought up, and the sun tea. Some bread with fresh butter was put into the mix. Voices rose and fell in the murmur of conversation. Mr. Dewey found himself talking to a gruff man with bright red hair and beard. Unlike others, he packed a 1911 pistol in a button down holster, but the hammer was down, and the holster flap was fully secured.

“Excuse me-uh-”

“Name’s Red.”

“Right. Excuse me Red, but I did not catch the name of the man with the embroidered scarf.”

Red turned slightly, to nod at the man in question.

“Well sir, that’s Charles A. Linesey, head of Farm Hill and commander of Charlie Company.”