Excerpt from To Hold Back the Dark Chapter Two

Wren-at-Dawn was a man of his word.  He repeated the same phrase to himself as he got up early Sunday morning to live up to his lost bet.  He’d do all the stables today – his first day in charge while Pierre was off-world with Ben.  But he would take two hours off for church.  He would go to church because Atticus was a wise minister and the music lifted his spirits.  It had nothing to do with the new recruit named Lanza who sang in the choir.  Well, not much.

Lost in thoughts of a sweet face, silver-white hair and the voice of an angel, Wren-at-Dawn jumped when Hreno said, “See, I told you he’d be here by now.”

Jeremy, accompanied by his best friend Magyar, nodded and picked up a pitchfork. 

“I’m going to lay down over here, Jeremy,” the dog said.  The boy nodded.

Jeremy and Magyar spent their summers at the Ranch.  Five years earlier, Jeremy had been one of the students kidnapped by a Strategia Oscuro during the Battle of Crystal Lake.  Magyar had risked her life to rescue him.  Hreno and Wren-at-Dawn had been part of the portal which brought him home.  He had to repeat the seventh grade that year, but from that point on, he knew what he wanted out of life – to be a veterinarian – and he did everything it took to reach that goal.  His tests and grades were good enough to go to one of the International Baccalaureates or Collegiate High Schools in the county, but George Jenkins High had one of the best agricultural departments, so he refused their invitations.  He was a junior there now with a 3.9 GPA.  He’d been given a full four-year scholarship to UF and would work on his Vet degree along with his bachelors.  The scholarship was from the Refuge.  He was proud of that.  And he knew that as soon as he was able, he’d move up here and become Ben’s partner.  Ben was the best vet anywhere, all the animals agreed on that.  But they also felt it wouldn’t hurt to have one who could talk to animals, like Jeremy could. 

“I still can’t believe the Queen didn’t get her way.”  Hreno brought an empty wheelbarrow over to Wren-at-Dawn.

            “It’s about time Ben stood up to her.  She’s become a spoiled brat.”   He took off his shirt.  With his exertion, the normally pale scar bisecting the area between his left shoulder and collarbone was a vivid red against his tanned skin.  He rarely noticed the scar anymore, except when an extremely powerful portal was being woven.  Then it ached and burned. 

            Jeremy took off his shirt, too.  It wasn’t that he was mimicking his hero; it was just warm in the stable.  “More like spoiled pet.  That’s what the horses call her.”

“A pet?  That’s how they feel about her?”  Hreno sneezed.

            Jeremy nodded before sneezing, too.

            “Bless you,” Wren-at-Dawn said.  “What she needs is a swift kick.”

Jeremy sneezed again.  “Really?” He stopped what he was doing to stare at his hero.  Wren-at-Dawn was probably only a year or two older than Jeremy, but where Jeremy was still a high school kid, Wren-at-Dawn was a man.  And Wren-at-Dawn thought that what Venutha needed was a swift kiss.  He could do that.  He could kiss the Queen.

 

            With Hreno’s and Jeremy’s help, Wren-at-Dawn only had one stable left to do.  They were showered and dressed for church and whistling up horses when Magyar rubbed her head against Jeremy’s leg.  He bent down and cupped her head lovingly in his hands.

            “I’m going to stay in the bunkhouse while you go on to church.”

“Are you OK?” Jeremy asked.

            “Sure.  It’s just been a long morning.  And Ohamaha has started nesting, so I’d just as soon stay out of her way for a while.”

            The boy pressed soft kisses on his dog’s forehead.  “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            Hreno put her hand on his elbow as they watched the ancient warrior pad slowly back to the boy’s bunkhouse.  Jeremy looked down at her, tears filling his eyes, “She’s dying.”

Hreno nodded but didn’t say anything.  She was great that way.

 

Chinan pulled the truck up to the farmhouse.  The truck’s front right headlight was busted.

“What happened?” Wren-at-Dawn asked calmly. 

Chinan shook his head and tried to match the horseman’s reserve.  “I went into town this morning.”

The truck bounced as a dozen teens climbed into the truck bed or the backseat – depending on their seniority.

“Courtney’s a pretty girl,” Wren-at-Dawn nodded.

“I met with her family at Bob Evans.  They’re good people. And they like me.”

“Crazy people,” Jeremy gently shoved the young horseman’s head toward the steering wheel.

“When I came out, the light was busted.”  He picked a wadded piece of paper up and handed it to Wren-at-Dawn.  This was on the windshield.  I can’t read, but it made Courtney blush and her father got angry and said perhaps I should think about moving into town.”

Wren-at-Dawn handed the paper to Jeremy.  “And?”

“And start going to First Baptist.”

Jeremy read the message aloud, “Go home you damned freaks.”

“You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

Jeremy scowled but didn’t question Wren-at-Dawn in front of the others.

“Take a dog with you, or let one of the other horsemen ride along.”

“Yes, Wren-at-Dawn.”

“Make sure all the Horsemen and Dog Guards know this.  There are some people in town who have their minds set to hate us.  We don’t need any trouble while Pop and Dad are away.”

Hreno leaned into Jeremy’s ear and whispered, “Atticus and the priest of First Baptist are having talks.  But not a week goes by that one of our trucks doesn’t get damaged – slashed tires, busted lights, dented panels.  And they like leaving nasty messages on the windshield or painted on the doors.”

Venusha leaned into him from the other side, “Sometimes they pee in the cab.  We have to lock the doors.”

Excerpt from

To Hold Back the Dark

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

 

HORSERADISH BEETS

1 1-pound can sliced beets

3 Tbsp sugar

1 Tbsp cornstarch

1 ½ tsp salt

1 ½ tsp vinegar

2 tsp horseradish

1 Tbsp butter/margarine

Drain beets, reserving liquid. Place beets in greased 1 ½ quart casserole. Blend sugar, cornstarch and salt. Stir in ¾ cup beet liquid and vinegar. Add remaining ingredients; bring to boil, stirring constantly. Pour over beets; cover. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Yield: 4 servings.

(Mrs. E. W. Henry, Frogmore, SC © Southern Living 1968)

Gluten-free and Vegetarian/Vegan Recipes

To meet my needs of being “gluten-free”, there are no ingredients that have wheat in them. Since one out of one-hundred people now have problems with the way the United States processes their foods, there are plenty of brands which are marked GF Gluten-free. However, read all the way around the label and determine if there might be traces of wheat or if the product was processed in a plant or on machinery that also handles wheat. (These statements are usually NOT found near the list of ingredients.) If this is the case and you are gluten-sensitive or have a wheat-toxicity, don’t use it!

I also deleted recipes which called for hidden gluten – like shrimp, frozen mangoes and parsnips.

Vegetarian foods allow the use of milk, honey, eggs, and other non-kill animal products; vegans do not. I have endeavored to post only recipes with vegan-appropriate ingredients. If I really liked something, though, that was vegetarian rather than vegan, I will note it.

Whenever possible, use non-GMO products (non-genetically modified).  If you think gmo’s are ok for you, you haven’t read any science fiction books, let alone Charles Darwin.

These recipes are not an attempt to substitute wheat or animal ingredients with something else. These recipes are “naturally” or originally gluten-free and vegetarian/vegan.

Excerpt from To Build an Army Chapter Two

The portals shimmered into existence: two to the east of the chapel, two to the west, and one hovered in the center of the graveyard. People stepped through to leave Earth.  Others jumped in from other worlds.  Shouts of “Whom do you serve?” mixed with “Comes the warrior.” Le’Vander had visited the Atlanta airport six years ago.  This was the same sense of organized chaos.  He leaned against the hood of his car and crossed his arms.  It was a shame Patsy was missing this, he thought.  It was better than the airport, because here the people traveling to hold back the dark.

With all the bright portals glaring in the afternoon, the shadow which swelled from the size of a fly to a loaf of bread just beyond the cemetery in front of the parsonage was overlooked by most.  Le’Vander felt the evil of it, and turned just as it expanded to the size of a window.  Le’Vander yelled, but with all the other people yelling, no one heard him.  He jammed his arm into the open window of his Toyota and beat the horn: three long, three short, three long blasts.  All eyes turned to him and he pointed at the dark disc which was now as large as his car.

A helmeted head poked through and gazed at them.  Soldiers of the light harmonized their actions, habit taking precedence over surprise and fear.  Soldiers of the dark tumbled and rolled from the door of despair, spreading out in various directions and immediately initiating battle.

Children were hustled into the chapel.  Twigs of Atticus encircled the building.

Le’Vander had his shotgun pulled from the trunk and firing before he ever gave thought to the action.

The smell of Chantilly floated to him.  Patsy was walking from the fellowship hall toward the chapel, earphones in and attached to some device at her waist.  A sheet of music held in both hands captivated her attention.  Le’Vander yelled, “Behind you! Patsy! Behind you!”

A warrior armed with what looked like a cactus – except the stalk was black and the spines were red – threw her head back and laughed.  Then the black cactus wielding woman swung at Patsy.  Patsy was in the middle of the refrain but glanced up at the movement.  She opened her mouth in surprise and instinctively raised her voice, “She could hear the driving nails on the hillside, and she prayed that His spirit will not fail!”

The cactus wielder crumpled.

“Hey, Patsy.  Do it again.” Le’Vander shouted; his voice unable to rise above the cacophony around him.

But she didn’t need his advice.  She did what she did best – Patsy sang.  And the dark soldiers fell back from her voice as if it were a sonic blast.

The song on the CD ended and Patsy advanced toward to door.  “My God is an awesome God,” she belted it out.  Dark soldiers writhed in agony.

The battle lasted an hour at least.  The dark soldiers were vanquished; the light prevailed.  People around Patsy began to sing, too, and what could easily have been a slaughter became a victorious songfest, like some macabre musical.

The injured were carried into the fellowship hall.  The children were bussed to the refuge.  Patsy made her way back to the car, after being hugged by most of the elders and strongly questioned by Gwen and prayed over by Atticus.  Patsy felt radiant.

Until she found Le’Vander’s shotgun snapped and shattered on the bloody ground by his Toyota.

She grabbed a medic – and not gently.  “Where’s Le’Vander?”

The Pakistani shook his head.

“Le’Vander!” she hollered.  “Tall, skinny, balding, makes the best coffee in the world, blue Star Wars shirt.”

“Clone Wars?” the young man asked.

“I don’t know!” She shook him.  “Where is he?”

“Fellowship hall.  With the wounded.”

“Is he hurt?  Is he dying?  What’s wrong with him?”
            “Nothing. I can do nothing for him.” The medic stuttered as Patsy continued to shake him.

His words sank in and she found herself running.  Her flotsam sandals flew across the grass.  She pushed someone out of the way and then she was beside him.  He was laying on a table in the fellowship hall, eyes closed, arms and legs stretched out as if he were asleep.

“Oh, Le’Vander,” she whispered.  “Le’Vander.”  She pressed her hands on his shoulders and he opened his eyes.

“You were magnificent, Patsy.  You were slaying them right and left.  I was never so proud of you in my life.”

“Oh, Le’Vander.”

He tried to sit up, but she insisted he lay back down.  “Don’t try to move, Le’Vander.  Just rest now.  You just rest here.  And I’ll stay with you.  No matter what.”

“Is everything alright, Patsy?” he asked softly, his voice trembled.

“The doctor said,” Patsy’s make-up smeared with her tears.  “The doctors don’t know everything.  They don’t.  He said there’s nothing he can do for you.  But I don’t believe him.”

“Patsy,” Le’Vander gasped.  “You’re crushing my shoulders.”

Her hands flew in the air.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Le’Vander.  Are you in a lot of pain?”

“No,” he shook his head.  “No, not much.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

He looked at her, then checked to his right and left, then looked at her again.  He lowered his voice, “Will you kiss me, Patsy, just once, before I die?”

“I swear it, Le’Vander.  I swear on our mothers’ graves, I’ll kiss you before you die.”

He grinned, began to sit up, and then lay back down again.  “Did you ever think, if you’d won that scholarship and gone away to sing opera at the Met, you wouldn’t have been here today?  You would have been the best opera singer in the world, dressed in sparkly outfits, eating oysters and caviar and sipping champagne with kings.  And everyone who heard you sing would have fallen in love with you.  But God had something better in mind for you.  I always said it, didn’t I?  And here it is.  You could have been singing for kings and queens, but today, you sang for God, and defeated the darkness.  You sang for God and He sang through you.  It don’t get better than that, Patsy.  Not ever.  No matter how many kings –“

Excerpt from

To Build an Army

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

 

PINEAPPLE BEETS

1 13 ½ ounce can pineapple chunks

½ cup water

1/3 cup cider vinegar

4 Tblsp brown sugar

1 Tbsp cornstarch

½ tsp salt

1/8 tsp ground ginger

2 1-pound cans sliced beets, drained

Drain pineapple, reserving syrup. Mix syrup with water and vinegar. Combine sugar, cornstarch, salt and ginger; add vinegar mixture. Cook until thickened, stirring constantly. Add beets; heat to boiling. Just before serving, mix pineapple into hot mixture. Yield: 8 servings.

(Sybil B. Coble, Macon, GA © Southern Living 1968)

Gluten-free and Vegetarian/Vegan Recipes

To meet my needs of being “gluten-free”, there are no ingredients that have wheat in them. Since one out of one-hundred people now have problems with the way the United States processes their foods, there are plenty of brands which are marked GF Gluten-free. However, read all the way around the label and determine if there might be traces of wheat or if the product was processed in a plant or on machinery that also handles wheat. (These statements are usually NOT found near the list of ingredients.) If this is the case and you are gluten-sensitive or have a wheat-toxicity, don’t use it!

I also deleted recipes which called for hidden gluten – like shrimp, frozen mangoes and parsnips.

Vegetarian foods allow the use of milk, honey, eggs, and other non-kill animal products; vegans do not. I have endeavored to post only recipes with vegan-appropriate ingredients. If I really liked something, though, that was vegetarian rather than vegan, I will note it.

Whenever possible, use non-GMO products (non-genetically modified).  If you think gmo’s are ok for you, you haven’t read any science fiction books, let alone Charles Darwin.

 

These recipes are not an attempt to substitute wheat or animal ingredients with something else. These recipes are “naturally” or originally gluten-free and vegetarian/vegan.

Excerpt from Possum Playing Poker Chapter One

            The first thing that struck me was his eyes.  They were a deep brown, like well-rubbed wood.  They were guarded, yet intrusive; introverted, yet fierce and somehow protective.

            He didn't look like the average mall security guard to me.

            I meandered through the Natural Sciences section of my favorite Books-a-Million and peered over the shelves at him.

            He sauntered to the end of Books-a-Million’s door, turned, and sauntered back across the opening.  His eyes searched up the north corridor.  He turned again, pacing the width of the doorway.  He searched down the south corridor.  He flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders.  Then he looked straight at me and caught me looking at him.  He looked startled, like he'd been caught being naughty.  I sometimes have that effect on people, being a teacher, so I smiled reassuringly at him.

            He looked positively shocked.

            Then I knocked over the entire section of Rachel Carson's books, and the mall security guard with the eyes that could melt steel disappeared from my life forever.

            Or so I thought . . .

            I tried to remember the fullness of his lips, the strong angular nose, the rounded chin that softened the steel marble jaw.  I guessed he was six foot three, maybe four.  His eyebrows were so solemn.  But my mind kept returning to his fingers.  There were long and tenuously slender. They were immaculate with pearl-like nails, cut straight across the top.

            The clerks knew me well, and helped me return the books to the shelf.  Jeff, who was completing his seventh year at the local community college and worked here on Wednesdays, jovially reminded me of all the other shelves and collections I'd knocked over in the last few years.  Customers gathered around us to listen and join in the laughter.

 

            When I told my best friend Christie about him, she asked me if I was ovulating.

            My mother, who lives in New Mexico with her second husband, told me what a wonderful life I had and reminded me that not everyone was meant to get married.

            But my possum Rush listened and growled at the appropriate times.

 

            Burdines was having a sale Thursday.  Not that I had any money to spend, or needed anything in particular . . . They do have a nice petite section, and my size twelve body - at five foot two -- enjoyed trying on lovely things that I have no place to wear.

            I found the most stunning emerald green silk dress, smothered in sequins.  Not that I would ever have the courage to wear it -- I tried it on.

            As I gazed into the three-sided mirror, I knew a moment in my life when I felt desirable and gorgeous.  Gone was the second grade teacher; a red-headed vixen in a sexy magic gown stood in her place.  Even my curly red hair, that usually made me look like I'd walked through a gale-force wind, looked ravishing, wild, and almost hussy-like.  As I peered in wonder into the mirror, HE saw me.  The security guard who obviously wasn't a security guard stood behind me, looking at me.  I mean LOOKING at me with the most adoring look of amazement on his face.  Every sequin sparkled.  Every dead silkworm sent its essence to radiate through the silk and HE saw me.

            Somewhere in the accessories department, a Yankee lit a cigarette in a blatantly non-smoking section.  Foam gushed from every ceiling nozzle in the store.

            It took me two days to fade the green streaks from my legs.

 

Excerpt from

Possum Playing Poker

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter Two

            She was crossing a bridge over a rocky stream in Georgia when an old blue ford pick-up rattled up behind her.  She pressed against the railings to let it pass.  It didn’t.  The driver stopped and rolled down the passenger-side window.  “Need a lift?”

            Peeking into the cab, she saw a man in his late thirties, short blonde hair, brown eyes, a wide nose and full lips in his handsome face, and a winning grin.  “Nope.  Thank you.  Just out for a stroll.”  She continued walking.

            “You’re a might far off the beaten path.”  The truck slowly kept up with her.

            “Never cared much for beaten paths,” she increased her step.

            The truck kept pace.  “I’m not trying to pick you up, Sister.”

            She hunched her shoulders and strode forward.

            “It’s just, I know you’re not from around here and – and – you look half-starved and a might wind-swept.”

            She was nearing the end of the bridge.

            “I just can’t stand the idea of one of God’s servants being cold and hungry.  And it’s going to snow.”

            Gwen stopped and looked at the man.  “It’s the first of May.”

            “Well, it’s gonna snow sometimes.”  He grinned.  “My name’s Atticus.  I’m pastor at Morning Creek; it’s just up the road.”

            Gwen grinned and began walking again.

            The truck crept forward.  “We’re a huge church.  We had nigh twenty-five people last Sunday.  And dinner on the grounds.  So the refrig in the fellowship hall is stocked with fried chicken and apple pie.”

Gwen didn’t stop, but she peered at Pastor Atticus again as her stomach growled.

            “Well look, our insurance agent says we have to keep the church and hall locked when not in use, but if someone were to look behind the stone angel by the double doors, they’d find a key.  And if that person were to take what they need and return the key later, wouldn’t nobody mind.”

            Gwen stopped and stared open-mouthed at this total stranger.

            He smiled.  “I gotta go serve communion to the shut-ins.  God bless you, Sister.”

            He drove away.  She numbly raised her hand and saw him smiling at her through the side mirror.

 

She ate cold chicken standing at the counter and surveyed the room Pastor Atticus had called a fellowship hall.  The setting sun sparkled through the jalousie windows, illuminating the dust specs she’d stirred up as she walked across the linoleum floor.  She refilled the water bottles and stored them in a raggedy backpack she’d been given in Utah.  She wiped the counter and looked back at the full refrigerator longingly.

            A door led from the hall to the sanctuary.  The church had a dozen nine-foot wide pews on each side of a central aisle.  It smelled of cedar planks and bees wax.  The altar shone with lemon oil.  The evening light fell gently through the nine stained glass windows:  Matthew, Mark, Luke and John on the left; Grace, Joy, Hope, and Charity on the right; and Jesus on the cross behind the pulpit.  An upright piano guarded the presbytery and a drum set flanked the pastor’s pulpit.  A massive carved mahogany table served as the altar.  It held a Protestant cross, a chalice and a paten resting on its charger, and an ancient Bible opened to Luke.  There was a brass strip underlining Luke 24:49. ''And behold, I am sending forth the promise of My Father upon you; but you are to stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high."  The two brass candlesticks held half-burnt white candles.

Her vision blurred with unshed tears, her chest expanded, trying to gather in the essence of the air.  The happiest times of her life had been in churches.  Singing in the choir, praying, teaching Sunday school.  Her feet led her forward and she sank onto the front pew.  A tiny puff of dust escaped the thin cushion.  She bent her head and began to sob.

 

She woke with the surety that someone was watching her.  A man was kneeling next to her, his right hand stretching toward her.  Before he could register that she was awake, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and his throat with her right.  Pushing him backwards, she landed on top of him.

“Whom do you serve?” her voice echoed in the tiny church.

            “God the Father Almighty,” the man spoke calmly.  “And Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord.”

            It took her a second to realize where she was and another second to relax her grip.  It took a third second to roll off the pastor’s chest.  He sat up and asked in a humorous tone, “Whom do you serve?”

            She put her right hand over her heart, “I serve the Light, the Bringers of light, and the Light Eternal.”

            Atticus got to his feet and held out his hand, “Sounds like we’re on the same team.”

            She took his hand and stood up.  “I’m sorry.  I fell asleep praying.  You just startled me.”

            “You got a strong grip,” he gently rocked her hand in his.

            She eyed the side door that led back into the fellowship hall.

            “Do you have a name?”

            She gently but firmly pulled out of his grasp.  “Thank you for the chicken.”  She took a step away.

            “There’s plenty more.”  Light from the full moon through the stained glass of Jesus cast a hallo around the pastor’s head and shoulders.

            “I tucked three pieces in my pack.  For the road.”  She took another step and bent down to catch the pack’s straps, keeping her eyes on his face.

            “You running away?”  He stepped toward her.

            “I’m just traveling.”  She hoisted the pack over her shoulder.

            “Well, maybe you’ve traveled as far as you need to.”  He kept his voice soft.  The colored lights seemed to follow him as he stepped closer.

            “That would be nice,” she heard herself whisper.

            “So stay.”

            She looked up into his face and tried not to cry again.  “No.  No, I have to keep – I’m just traveling.”  She spun and marched quickly into the fellowship hall.

            “He told me you were coming,” his voice echoed from the sanctuary and she froze.

Excerpt from

Comes the Warrior

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

BARBECUED STRING BEANS

3 cups string beans

4 Tbsp butter/margarine

1 Tbsp minced onion

1 Tbsp minced green pepper

¼ cup chili sauce

¼ cup vinegar

1 Tbsp prepared mustard (opt)

1 tsp curry powder

1 tsp horseradish

1 tsp slat

1/8 tsp red pepper

1/1/2 cups boiling water

Cook beans in salt water until tender; drain.

Melt butter in frying pan; add onion and green pepper. Cook until done. Add remaining ingredients; cook 5 minutes before adding beans. Simmer slowly until beans are well seasoned.

(Mrs. Louise Kennedy, Tampa, FL © Southern Living 1968)

Gluten-free and Vegetarian/Vegan Recipes

To meet my needs of being “gluten-free”, there are no ingredients that have wheat in them. Since one out of one-hundred people now have problems with the way the United States processes their foods, there are plenty of brands which are marked GF Gluten-free. However, read all the way around the label and determine if there might be traces of wheat or if the product was processed in a plant or on machinery that also handles wheat. (These statements are usually NOT found near the list of ingredients.) If this is the case and you are gluten-sensitive or have a wheat-toxicity, don’t use it!

I also deleted recipes which called for hidden gluten – like shrimp, frozen mangoes and parsnips.

Vegetarian foods allow the use of milk, honey, eggs, and other non-kill animal products; vegans do not. I have endeavored to post only recipes with vegan-appropriate ingredients. If I really liked something, though, that was vegetarian rather than vegan, I will note it.

Whenever possible, use non-GMO products (non-genetically modified).  If you think gmo’s are ok for you, you haven’t read any science fiction books, let alone Charles Darwin.

These recipes are not an attempt to substitute wheat or animal ingredients with something else. These recipes are “naturally” or originally gluten-free and vegetarian/vegan.

Excerpt from Laughing Humans Chapter One

Excerpt from

Laughing Humans

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

excerpt from Troughton Company Chapter Two

            “In 197 BCE, a Macedonian Phalanx was being opposed by a Roman Legion. They had twenty-foot spikes which served to kill when held parallel to the ground, and could deflect air-born projectiles when held at forty-five degrees.  However, the soldiers wielding them could not change directions unless the spikes were held straight up. So Flaminius changed the rules of battle, and attached the Macedonians from the rear.”

            The Troughtons looked down over the overpass of the intersection of 25 (Gordon Highway) and 56 (Doug Barnyard Parkway) onto the colonel and the 74^th Cavalry below. The colonel stood head and shoulders above the rest of his soldiers but wasn’t on any type of platform. His broad shoulders and tight ass were made prominent by his khaki uniform. Muscular thighs and arms – the kind that came from hard work, not just nights at the gym – put him at about two-hundred twenty pounds.

            “Where are their horses?” Pizzaboy asked.

            Jailbird pointed, “Bikes. Two Harleys, an Indian, a Kawasaki, and a couple of custom jobs by the look of them.”

            “Mechmon fodder,” Smartboard growled.

            The colonel tilted his head and listened to a messenger, who spoke excitedly and pointed onto the overpass where the Troughtons had gathered. The colonel shook his head. “We regroup, get behind this CE, find its weakest patch.”

            Jerry kissed his wife and hugged Hunter.  “Let’s go sting them where it hurts.”

Chrissy cupped her hands over her mouth and bellowed, “Hey, History Channel, watch this!”

            They began running and chanting, “Troughton Company is here. Mechmons best be a’feared!”

The colonel held up his hand and his troops watched in trepidation as ten civilians ran toward the city-eater. They climbed onto the front left corner unmolested.

            The pairs worked with speed and agility, calling out to each other encouragements and accomplishments.

            “One-Left, done!” Jailbird shouted. He and Angel ran to the back corner.

            “Two-Left, done!” Jerry grabbed Chrissy and dashed to the backside.

            It continued with precise timing. A line became a chevron, then a Y and finally a massive X began to appear on top of the CE.

            “Twelve-Right, done!” was shouted at the same time as “Six-Right, done.”

            The four pairs were scrambling down the east side of the CE just as Jailbird shouted, “One-Right, done!”

            They ran, out-pacing the slow creature and jumped back on top of the overpass just as the CE chugged.  It shivered and the Troughtons cheered. It began flailing its nozzles about and the individual mechmons gleaning its path returned to its side. The 74^th rose in a frenzy of cheers.

            The CE stopped. It didn’t die, but it couldn’t move.

            “Private,” the colonel called the messenger over. “Go to Troughton Company and give them my compliments. Ask them to parley.”

            Colonel Peter Glynn watched as the Troughtons kissed and hugged each other. Two of them – a fat, pot-bellied man in his fifties and a chubby man in his thirties mooned the disabled CE. Some members of the 74^th did the same. He observed the private deliver his message to the bearded man holding onto the red-haired woman and blond teen. Jerry Troughton – Glynn presumed – a legend in these parts – noted for guerilla attacks on mechmons – successful ones – shook his head and raised his hand. His company stilled and listened to him. He pointed northwest, toward the middle CE.

            A plump woman in her forties and three children pulled the tarp off a shopping cart they had brought with them. Glynn watched as the Troughtons grabbed five stakes and a satchel and a funnel.

            The private arrived out of breath. “Troughton Company sends their regards, Colonel. They respectfully decline your invitation but counter with an offer of their own.”

            “What offer?”

            “They request ten of us to join them in the next assault.”

            Another messenger – a corporal interrupted. “The middle CE stopped dead and has begun moving southeast, straight at the disabled CE.”

            “Straight at us.”

            “Yes, sir. Should be here in three hours or less.”

            “Major Crumbley!”

            The tall woman saluted.

            “Gather eight of your best men. Make damn sure Mickey’s one of them. Mount up! We’ve been invited to repeat what we’ve just seen done.”

            “Yes, sir!” She quickly assembled her team. They rode up onto the overpass within fifteen minutes; two hours and forty five minutes to spare.

            Jerry met the colonel with a handshake. “Welcome, Colonel. We thought you might like to go with us on the next volley. Depending on how well you do on the second, we might just let you take the third one out yourselves.”

            “The third one is twenty-four miles away.” Major countered. “Six hours at best but going due south.”

            “Mechmons are attracted to the biggest mass of metal. Right now,” Hunter pointed at the CE. “That’s it.”

            Chrissy handed Hunter a bottle of water. “When we take out the second one, the third one will head this way, too. They’ll have to stop and go directly  east and then stop again and trace their first one’s path.”

            “They can’t shift diagonally,” Hunter added.

            “We are quite aware of how CEs move,” the major growled.

            Jeannie stepped up. “There’s enough metal in those bikes to attract the feeder mechs. Get them out of here.”

            Glynn glared.

            Jerry supported Mrs. Hicks. “We have children here. We know what we’re doing. Trust me. Take the bikes away. If you’re to do this, you can’t have any metal on you. No zippers, no steel-toed boots, no braces even. We can crawl all over these mechmons, roadsters, and City-eaters without raising their alarm – but only as long as we have no metal.”

            “Empty your pockets, too.” Chrissy added. “You’ve heard loose lips sink ships? Well, loose change, lose your hips.”

            “That’s a little harsh,” Jerry whispered to his wife.

            Glynn nodded at the major, “Make it so.” He bent down and unlaced his boots.

            “I’m sorry, colonel,” Chrissy spoke gently. “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring, too.”

            He looked down at her five foot three frame from his six foot four height and deep sorrow forced its way into his rugged features. He shoved the emotion back and away and yanked off his ring.

Excerpt from

Troughton Company

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.