The Last Pilgrims (39 page)

The bearded man looked around the basement
carefully, then came over to her and crouched down near her.

“My name is Rob Fosse. I work with Phillip
of the Central Texas militia. My men are upstairs. We’re not here
to harm you.”

She closed her eyes and continued to pray,
as the man named Rob cut her bonds and removed the gag from her
mouth. Her jaw was sore, and she found it difficult to speak.

“Help,” was all she could manage.

“Ma’am,” Rob Fosse said, gently. “I’m sorry
for whatever you’ve been through, but we are here to help you.
Please come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she
screamed, “I just want to be left alone!”

Rob Fosse had looked at her and just nodded
his head. On his belt he had a holster, and in the holster he had a
military looking pistol. He drew the weapon, and locked his eyes on
Ana. “Ma’am, this is a Beretta nine millimeter pistol. Do you know
how to operate one of these?”

“Yes,” she lied.

Rob flipped the pistol around and handed it
to her. She didn’t know what to think. Slowly, she raised her hand
and took the pistol, keeping it pointed at the strange man with the
beard.

“The safety is on,” he said, pointing at the
gun, “there is one in the chamber.” He turned and began to walk
back towards the stairs.

“Halt!” she hollered, weakly.

“Halt?” he said, turning back to her and
smiling.

“Just… stop for a minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What’s going on? Why are you leaving? Why
did you give me this gun?”

“Because you obviously need it, and because
you want to be left alone, and because you have no reason to trust
me or anybody else.”

“What happened to the people who… were here…
the four people who killed the people who owned this ranch, and
then took me hostage.”

“They’re being handled. Don’t worry about
them.”

“More killing?”

“Ma’am, I couldn’t begin to explain to you
what all is going on out there… but then again, maybe you know
already. There are no police. There is no law. The militia is the
law for right now, and we’re trying our best to stabilize the area.
We have placed a cordon around the Vallenses, who are a peaceful,
Christian group living just south of here. We’re just operating in
this area to try to keep Jonathan Wall and the Vallensian people
safe.”

“Jonathan Wall?”

“Yes. He is a good friend of Phillip, our
leader.”

“Jonathan Wall!” she shouted. “That is where
I’m going! I’m going to meet Jonathan Wall! I mean… I’m heading
south. I don’t know Jonathan… but… my husband was killed. I…” she
stumbled over her words, pausing before starting again. “…I am a
student of Jonathan’s. He doesn’t know me, but I’ve been trying to
get to him since the crash happened.”

“Well, then perhaps we can do this over
again,” Rob said smiling. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, for whatever you’ve
been through, but we are here to help you. Please come with me.” He
held out his hand for the gun.

Slowly, she lowered the weapon and let him
take it from her hand.

The Vallenses, both the newly recruited
Vallensian militia, and the thousands of Vallensian refugees, were
now all packed up and heading westward towards Harmony. The long,
lonely train stretched for miles down the Bethany road. Ana was in
the wagon with Betsy and Paul Miller and their children, but her
mind was on Jonathan Wall. She hoped he was alive, and that she
would see him again. She had fought so hard to get here.
If I
ever see him again, I will tell him what I have failed to say for
all of these twenty years… I will tell him that I love him... even
if he doesn’t feel the same way about me.
The slow swaying of
the wagon emphasized the emotion and angst that seemed to wash over
her mind and soul. Her head dropped. Once again, she was heading
out into the unknown, and once again she felt like she was all
alone in the world.

As Rob Fosse led her out of the house, she
saw the four murdering looters lined up with their backs to the
wall of an old red barn. The Salesman wouldn’t look at her. Their
hands were tied behind their backs, and they weren’t blindfolded.
They stood there with unmixed and undiluted terror expressed freely
on their faces, staring at a firing squad of seven militia men with
rifles. She didn’t know what to think about that, but she caught
the looter women looking at her guiltily as she rode by. She pitied
them, and her eyes communicated that she was glad it wasn’t her
staring at readied rifles with her back to a barn.

He was impressed with the setup at Harmony.
How Phillip had been prescient and skilled enough to design and
build such a facility—and actually, he was told, several of
them—before the collapse, only deepened his respect for the
Ghost.

He could see that years of silent and steady
planning and work, along with thousands and thousands of dollars
had gone into the design and construction of Harmony. Yet, however
useful and well planned it was, the location was not an ideal
defensible position. The facility was built into the walls of a
caliche pit that covered many acres, meaning that the defenders—if
indeed the plan was to defend the facility—would be on low ground,
with their attackers above them… far from ideal.

Harmony was designed to store enough food
and supplies for a very long period of time, but for hundreds and
not tens of thousands. The facility was large enough to hold the
throngs of Vallenses, but not comfortably, and not for any real
length of time. An enemy could surround Harmony and just wait.
Starvation, disease, and other miseries would finish off the plain
people in short order.

Phillip had hinted that he had a plan, and
no one doubted that he had, but thus far the plan was still hidden
in the breast of the militia leader. If anyone knew the plan,
Gareth was ignorant of it. Preparations to house the guests were
proceeding furiously. Everyone knew (even the enemy, it was
assumed) that the Vallenses were on their way. As of yet, only the
newly recruited Vallensian milita units had begun to arrive.

Gareth watched the frenzy of activity from
the back of his horse atop one of the cliffs that looked down over
the Harmony “hole.” He wondered if, as Phillip had said, this might
be the last stand of the freemen of Central Texas. He knew from
scouts that the army of the Duke of El Paso, maybe over 5,000 men,
was on the way from the southwest. He knew that the army of the
Duke of Louisiana, numbered in the thousands as well, was coming
hard from the east. Gareth assumed, as all of the leaders of the
Ghost Militia did, that his father, the king, was sending a large
force from New Rome.

He shook his head. Even if the defenders of
Harmony could fight off the maybe thousands of attackers from the
west and from the east, which was not at all probable… even if they
could defeat a force twice their size in the open field and from
low ground—a precarious and difficult to defend position… even if
they could outlast or outfight such a huge force… they would almost
immediately be facing another army two to three times that size
coming in from New Rome.
Bleak
was the only faithful and
honest word to describe the outlook of the next couple of days.

He knew that Phillip was a phenomenal
fighter, and a brilliant tactician. The comparisons between Phillip
and Stonewall Jackson were legitimate and well deserved. Still, at
some point, the odds became too great, the conditions became too
difficult to overcome, and the likelihood of success dwindled to
almost zero. Gareth knew that his own survival, logically, required
him to flee and seek the forgiveness of his father, the king. But
he also knew that he would never do that. His position was a
principled one and not one of expediency or a desire for power.
Aztlan must be resisted at all costs, and he was willing to die to
make that point. If he did die, he would be portrayed as a rebel
and an opportunist. He would be trumpeted as a traitor to his own
people. The truth, he knew, was otherwise, and he was satisfied to
let the God of Heaven rule on how Crown Prince Gareth of Aztlan was
to be remembered.

As thoughts of martyrdom or ignominy washed
over him, he did not hear as Phillip rode up next to him and sat
quietly looking out over the massive hole in the ground that was
Harmony.

Gareth looked up, and at last noticed that
Phillip was sitting there quietly on his warhorse Babieca,
examining the multitude of men who went about minutely following
his commands in and around Harmony.

“Ah, Ghost… you never seem to tire of
appearing magically without being seen or noticed.”

“I cannot make others see or hear what they
cannot see or hear. This stallion weighs upwards of a ton, and
makes much more noise than he should. It’s not like he’s wearing
slippers, Prince Gareth.”

He smiled. Phillip really could not imagine
why people were not more aware of their surroundings and ordered in
their thinking. The Ghost did not see himself as gifted or special.
He saw everyone else as plodding, dull, and particularly
unconcerned about the limitations of their five senses.

Gareth looked at Phillip and nodded his
head. “So we are to have Phillip’s last stand in a hole with no
possibility of escape? Am I reading this correctly?”

“Based on what you know, I don’t blame you
for thinking that this looks like a hopeless defense. I should tell
you though, that our prognosis is far from hopeless. The addition
of the Vallensian troops will help us tremendously. More than they
can possibly imagine.”

“But, how are we going to fight them? I’ve
been to the best military schools available in the post-collapse
world. I’ve never seen anyone as good as you, but I cannot fathom
how you plan on holding out in this location against such a force
coming from two different directions. Phillip… you know this is not
the way we fight. The Ghost militia has never chosen to fight in
this manner.”

“As I said,” Phillip answered, calmly,
“based on the information that you have, I cannot blame you for
your confusion.”

“At any point do you plan on sharing your
plans with me?”

Phillip sat still for a moment, looking out
over the work going on at Harmony. After a long pause, he spoke
again, “You said, ‘we’.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘we’. You said, ‘this is not the
way
we
fight.’”

“I did say that,” Gareth answered.

“Can I believe that? Can I believe that now
that the prognosis looks bleak that I can trust the Crown Prince of
Aztlan with my most critical plans? Can I conclude that Rollo, my
trusted Lieutenant and friend has abandoned and betrayed me, while
you—the rich and entitled son of my enemy—will remain by my
side?”

“You know,” was all that Gareth said.

The militia leader looked down and brushed
the mane of his horse with his hand, before looking back at him.
“Yes. I suppose I do. I suppose I must trust you and place all of
this… our future, and our freedom… in your hands.”

“If you do not trust me, Phillip, I ask you
to kill me now. I am not here for fame, or fortune, or heroism, or
adventure. I am not even here for a kingdom, which would be the
most plausible reason for me to be at war with my father.”

“Then why are you here, Prince Gareth?”

Gareth looked back over his shoulder to the
northwest, squinting as if he could see all the way to Aztlan.
Then, he looked into Phillip’s eyes. “I am here because, as every
man born into royalty ought to do, I love my people, and I desire
to serve their best interests. I want them to be free of the
tyranny and imperialism of my father. I want them to be free to
live as you live, and as the Vallenses live.”

“A lesser man could rationalize sacrificing
us at this point, to save his own skin… all to ‘help’ his people,
of course,” Phillip said.

“It will be no help to me or my people for
freedom to perish anywhere.”

“You have no selfish motives?” Phillip
asked.

“All of my motives are selfish,” he replied,
exhaling deeply. “I selfishly want you, the Ghost militia, and the
Vallenses to rise up and snatch my father from the throne. I
selfishly pray that the King of the South States will see our
valiant and heroic efforts and come to our aid. I selfishly look
for help in our cause from every quarter. I selfishly do not care
how many men are lost in overcoming the evil my father represents
on this earth.

“I must admit, Phillip, that I dream of
sitting on the throne of Aztlan, ruling benevolently, as our friend
and my teacher Sir English taught me. I admit that there is some
ego involved with believing that I am born to this greatness, and
deserving of this power. I am just egotistical enough to believe
that I am able and worthy to rule Aztlan.”

Phillip nodded. “I have to say, Prince, that
such questions of government and rule are now beyond me. My life is
very provincial, and I cannot see afar off. I am no Napoleon.”

“This is why you are compared to
Stonewall.”

“Those comparisons miss the mark entirely,
but I am powerless to stop them.”

The two friends sat silently for some time,
before Phillip began to speak again. “I hope you won’t be offended
if some small details of my plans remain private. The success of my
plan requires that there be a ‘need-to-know’ application here.”

“I understand.”

Phillip looked out over Harmony, and began
to point with his hand. “Our plan is to arrange our forces in
rings, spreading outward from Harmony, which will be at the center.
The outermost forces will confront the enemy from dugouts,
trenches, and reinforced emplacements. The duty of these forces
will be to cause Aztlan, from whatever side he approaches, to
expend himself on an enemy he cannot see, and cannot quantify.