The Last Pilgrims (26 page)

What came next was choreographed to
perfection, as the militia, using the method of Genghis Khan,
pulled back rapidly in the center of their lines—creating an
enveloping bubble, as the Aztlani army moved westward toward the
Wall ranch. The enemy officers, sensing a great victory, and
wanting to be part of it, did not lag behind the rear-guard.
Instead, they bolted forward towards the middle of the host, and
were thus unaware when the militia’s northern unit swept in behind
the enemy army, effectively slamming shut the back door. The
attempts to blow up the dam had failed, but there were few people
there to notice.

Heedless and ignorant, the Aztlani
army—albeit still in ranks—rushed forward in pursuit of what they
thought was the bulk of the defeated and retreating militia. Gareth
could see their faces contorted in the rapturous throes of
victorious glee, despite the fact that, unbeknownst to them, for
every five miles they marched, one out of every two of them was
killed by snipers and crossfire. It wasn’t until, a few hours
later, when the Aztlani force arrived within two miles of the Wall
Ranch, that the officers began to notice that their army had
considerably shrunk.

Part of the reason for their ignorance of
what was happening to them was that they had so far outpaced their
rear-guard that they didn’t even realize that they no longer had
one. The militia had effectively destroyed almost one-half of the
enemy without their leadership even realizing it.

Eventually, though, the reality of the
situation began to sink in, and the Aztlani officers started to
recognize that their army was now enveloped with no way to move but
forward. Unhappily for their men, the officers reasoned that—since
the way forward was open, it had to be the way out. So, they kept
up the march, hoping that they would soon outreach the forces that
harried them on both sides, and from the rear. The path of least
resistance was forward, and forward they went.

David had procured another horse from a dead
Aztlani cavalryman, and had rejoined Gareth on the south side of
the advancing Aztlani army.

“We must ride forward, Prince, and get to
the ranch, so that we can participate in the defense,” David said,
the excitement of battle making him slightly short of breath.

“The way gets exceedingly narrow here,”
Gareth replied, “we’ll be seen.”

“Follow me. We’ll shortcut through the
Thicket. No one knows the Thicket like me, except maybe Ruth.”

They bolted to the left and, soon, they were
immersed in the Thicket. “Stay right on my tail, Prince Gareth, and
don’t make a mistake or you’ll likely kill your horse and then
you’ll have to walk out!”

David expertly negotiated the almost
imperceptible game trails and switchbacks of the Thicket, and
Gareth did his best to stay directly on the tail of the horse in
front of him.

In less than an hour, they were near the
southeast corner of the Wall Ranch, and Gareth gave ample vocal
warning that they were not the enemy, so that they wouldn’t be shot
by the troops manning the pillboxes.

They found Phillip in the command center set
up in the Wall’s dining room. Flushed with excitement, David
reported to Phillip all he had seen and all that had occurred
during the militia’s planned retreat.

Strangely enough, Phillip was neither
surprised nor excited about the news that his plan was proceeding
flawlessly. His blue eyes never gave even a twinkle or shine as he
stared out the window to the east. After a moment, he gave orders
to The Mountain and several other militia leaders, and then began
pacing the room back and forth.

“This is the worst type of battle for me,”
he said, “and the absolute worst time in the battle. I can do no
good for my men in any of the pillboxes—isolated from
command—neither can I assault the enemy because our forces are
already hidden and in place. I have to trust my men to do their
duty, and wait for the results.” He paused and closed his eyes, “I
feel just as I did when my Juliet was pregnant again, and I was
waiting for word…”

With that, his strength gave out, and he
slumped into a heavy oaken chair. Tears came to his peerless blue
eyes, until he closed them again in silence.

Gareth sensed that the militia commander
needed a moment, so he indicated to David to meet him outside.

“We ought to do something productive,” David
said. “However, since we aren’t in command, maybe we should join
the men in one of the pillboxes where we can watch the defense
unfold?”

With that, the two men walked back to the
southeast, and climbed down into the underground structure, joining
the three militia men who were armed with fully automatic machine
guns.

There was no conversation for some time as
they awaited the ambush on the Aztlani forces. After a few minutes
of silence, David looked at Gareth and a strange look of distress
passed over his face.

“You royal idiot! You’ve been wounded!”

Only then did Gareth notice the blood that
had pooled around his collar. The shot, he had assumed, must have
gone through his coat, and had actually hit him in the shoulder,
almost precisely where he had been stabbed by the spy Ronald
Getz.

He prodded the wound with his fingers,
before rolling his eyes and dabbing at the blood with a cloth he
kept in his pocket. “I guess it’s more beer and garlic for me.”

David pulled back his collar and examined
the wound. “It’s not too serious. Through and through; but as soon
as this battle is over, a hospital will be set up in the barn, and
you are to immediately report to Ana for treatment.”

Gareth painfully worked the shoulder before
replying. “Certainly, David, I will do as you say.”

The assault on the Wall Ranch was over
almost as soon as it started. The guns in the pillboxes poured down
incessant and deadly fire on what was left of the Aztlani forces.
David and Gareth fed ammo to the gunners and reminded them to let
the barrels cool when they got too hot.

After a few minutes of mind-rending fire,
the militia gunmen pointed down the hill and Gareth could see white
flags flying all along the Aztlani lines.

The dead bodies were piled thick and high as
David and Gareth rode out among the surrendered forces. They looked
around, as the men had thrown down their weapons and were huddled
together now at the place that had been the center of the
assault.

He estimated the remnants of the once great
Aztlani army to be at less than 300 men, all of whom were now
wide-eyed and pensive.

Pacing back and forth on his horse before
the enemy host, he glowered down on their officers with unmasked
hatred, as blood dripped from his fingertips, flowing down from the
wound in his shoulder.

“Who is in command of this force?” he
bellowed.

An Aztlani Colonel stepped forward, and
finally recognized his Prince. He stood there in stunned silence
for a moment before dropping to his knee in reverence.

“Stand up, dog!” he shouted. “Stand up you
cowardly murderer of women and children! So
you
are in
command of this rabble?”

“Yes, Your Grace!”

He paced once again the full length of the
Aztlani front, and then returned to the quivering Colonel. “Command
your men to pick up their arms and continue fighting! There is no
surrender for you here! We are under the black flag, and you knew
that before you began this murderous spree amongst the free and
peaceful people of Texas!”

“Under the rules of war, Your Grace, we
surrender our army to you!” the Colonel replied.

“Your army?!?” The anger and hatred of what
Aztlan was, and what it had become, flushed through him as he
withdrew his pistol and shot the Colonel through the head.

“I’ll ask again… who is
now
in
command of this army?!”

Another officer sheepishly stepped forward
and bowed before the Crown Prince of Aztlan. “I am, Your
Grace.”

“Command these men to take up their arms and
continue the battle! We are under the black flag, and there is no
surrender for you. You will all die today for your crimes” he said
as he pointed across the aligned Aztlani soldiers with his pistol.
“You may fight and die like men, or you will be shot down or hung
like dogs! Now… take up your arms!”

“Great Prince,” the soldier interrupted,
“the day is lost. We are beaten. We must surrender. Please
honorably observe the rules of war, Your Grace, and accept our
unconditional surrender!”

“Where were your
‘rules of war’
when
you murdered 2000 innocent Vallenses at Comanche? Where was your
honor then?”

“We did not participate in the death of the
Vallenses, Your Grace! Looters and highwaymen killed those
people!”

Gareth raised the pistol, and shot the
soldier in the face. The man fell backwards and started to twitch
uncontrollably on the ground.

“Again! Who is in command of this
army?!”

“You are!” several of the Aztlani soldiers
shouted.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Finally, I have
a correct answer! Now, as the Crown Prince of Aztlan and as
commander of this army, I order you to take up your arms and fight.
Alternatively, if you are a coward, you may try to flee… However,
what you will
not
do is surrender! You have thirty seconds
to comply, or you will be shot as criminals one by one!”

Gareth rode back up the hill towards the
militia lines. Seeing no way out, and desirous of ending the
painful and frightening process, the Aztlani soldiers rushed to
their weapons. They were cut down like weeds by the relentless
punishing fire from militia guns.

It was all over in minutes.

The whole day would have been a smashing
success, had it not been for the last news the command center
received less than an hour after the final shots were fired.
Militia dead were being buried, and the wounded were being hauled
to the hay barn when word came that a lone Aztlani deserter had
found and blown the charges on the Penateka Dam. The one flaw in
the plans for the day was that no one had remembered to remove and
secure the charges on the dam.

As the wounded were being treated, and as
the spoils of war were being collected into militia wagons,
billions of gallons of precious water—the lifeblood of hundreds of
Vallensian farmers and fishermen—washed downstream as a fifty-foot
wall of water flooded farms and villages, unceremoniously removing
the bodies of the dead from the battlefield at the base of what had
been the Penateka Dam.

As Pano worked above him to re-seal the
entrance and to obscure any easy recognition of the existence of
the tunnel, English clung to the ladder—an old, partially rotted
contraption that clung precariously to its title only by the
strength of some rusted nails and wishes.

The time he spent in the British Special Air
Service as a young man taught him to remain calm even when in
peril. However, no amount of training will make you feel
comfortable or safe while in pitch darkness, suspended over a hole
of unknown depth, clinging to rotted boards nailed together by
uneducated drug mules over two decades ago.

About 15 feet down, all light disappeared
into inky darkness and the ladder swung freely, hanging by hope and
tradition more than by any really tangible reason. When Pano
finished hiding the entrance to the hole, even the faint light from
the top disappeared and the absolute darkness overwhelmed them.

“How far down to the bottom of this hole?”
he whispered.

“It reaches all the way to the bottom,
boss,” Pano said, sarcastically.

“Idiot!” he muttered. “I’m about to plummet
down this shaft, and I’d like to know how long I’ll fall before I’m
crushed into a bloody heap at the bottom… if there is one.”

Pano exhaled loudly. “If you hang from the
bottom rung you should be able to touch the ground… unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless a portion of the ladder has fallen
off, then you might, indeed, plummet to your death.”

At about 25 feet down, he reached the bottom
rung and lowered himself cautiously until he felt his feet scrape
the ground at the bottom of the hole. He dropped down and blindly
moved to one side, feeling for the tunnel wall with his hands.

When, at last, Pano joined him, English had
a million questions rushing through his brain.

“Ok, I’m going to ask you a series of
questions. If you smart off, I’m going to choke you out, do you
understand?”

“Yes, boss. Of course.”

“Good, we understand each other. First
question… what do we do for light?”

“Well, we could go back up, because there is
plenty of light up there; but instead I recommend we use a torch.
I’ve got one right here.”

“A flashlight?” he asked.

“I don’t understand what you are saying,”
Pano said.

“You have a torch?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Would you light it, or turn it on, or
whatever you intend to do with it?”

He could hear some struggling and muted
motion as Pano readied the torch, then he heard a flint strike and
a flame quickly lit up the area.

“Excellent,” he said, “so now we are burning
up the oxygen down here, which leads to my second question. Is
there any oxygen down here?”

“Yes, boss. There are large pipes every so
often that reach to the surface, providing oxygen supply over the
entire length of the tunnel. Most are hidden in dilapidated
structures and rubble or under rock piles on the surface.”

“Ok, great. Next question!” He knelt down to
feel the ground and examined the tunnel as best as he could with
the flickering light that was available. “We have a ten mile trek
ahead of us, and all of it is underground. How safe is this tunnel?
Are there any gas deposits that are going to blow us up? Have any
bears or rattlesnakes taken up residence down here? What about
looters or deserters? Would the structure hold, or cave in? Does
anyone else know about this tunnel?”