Republic of the Living (Novella): Vengeance by Taz Gallaher Read Free Book Online Page B

Hanrahan
continued.  “We’re with the Benton Corporation.  You’ve heard of it?”
    The man giggled and turned to his comrades.
 “Whitney?  You ever heard of this Benton Corporation.”
    Worry creased the man’s face.  “Well . . . I
. . . .”
    The captain batted the young man on the shoulders.
  “The proper response, soldier, is: who the fuck cares?”  He
guffawed.  “Benton Corporation.  Smith Corporation.  Corporate
Corporation.  These individuals, Corporal Whitney, are marauders with
their eyes firmly set on our dwindling supplies.”   
    The other two soldiers moved away from the group,
toward a dark gap in the surrounding scrub.
    “ And, corporal,” the captain
continued.  “What is the penalty for marauders?”
    The man gazed at his commander with a blank face.
    Fremont squatted again in front of Hanrahan.
 “I just want to thank you,” he said, his voice dropping into a low,
serious tone.  “Those horses represent valuable contributions to our
efforts here.  Very valuable.”
    He stood and stretched.  “You two outlaws,
however, are not valuable. Not at all.  In fact, corporal, these two men
are very dangerous.  Take this big, ugly one over to Murphy and Banks.”
 
    The corporal sidled behind Pearly and yanked him
to his feet.  Pearly glanced at Hanrahan and winked.  Hanrahan’s eyes
tracked the corporal as he pushed Pearly across the clearing to the pair of
soldiers waiting at the forest’s edge.  The corporal passed Pearly off and
the pair pushed him forward.  The trio disappeared into the shadows below
a stand of tall redwoods.  Corporal Whitney returned to Captain Fremont’s
side.
    Hanrahan looked up at the captain.  He spat.
 “You’re deserters, aren’t you?”  He shifted his eyes to the corporal
and rested his gaze on the young man.  “A squad of militia deserters.”
    Fremont jerked his eyes onto Hanrahan.
 “Deserters!”  He grinned.   “Hardly.   What do you say,
Corporal Whitney?”
    The corporal dropped his gaze and studied his
boots.
    Fremont chuckled.  “No, sir,” he said to
Hanrahan.  “Deserters?  No.  We’re the last patrol.
 Abandoned by our commanders.  Left here to defend and protect.”
 He raised his head and stared toward the tree tops.  “Six months
now.  All on our own.  We once were ten.”  The captain grasped
his hands behind his back and raised his shoulders.  “Ten little Indians.”
 He smiled into the sky.  “Three lost to meatbags.  Two murdered
by marauders.”  He paused and pressed his lips together.  “Two to
meatbags?  Three to marauders?”  He turned to Whitney.   Corporal, can you remember the damned
math?”
    “ Yes, sir,” the man answered
brightly.  “Three to meatbags.  Johnson and Kyle were killed by
marauders.  And then there was Fuentes.”
    A crazy smile danced across the captain’s lips.
 He turned back to Hanrahan.  
    “Yes.  That’s right.  And then there was
Fuentes.”  He laughed.  “Poor Sergeant Fuentes.”
    The corporal glanced nervously at Hanrahan and his
eye shifted to the campfire.
    “ Jesus,” the captain grunted.
 “What the hell is taking those two so damn long?”
    As if in reply, a voice bellowed from within the
forest.  A barrage of snapping branches gave way to a high-pitched shriek
that lanced the air.  The captain swiveled to face the forest.  The
corporal raised his pistol in the direction of the trees.  Both men jumped
when the sharp crack of a rifle echoed across the campground.
    As the gunshot faded, Hanrahan pushed his bound
hands beneath his jacket and closed them around the handle of the knife
holstered on his belt.  He rocked backward, pushed his boots into the
earth, and sprang forward, knife extended in front of him.  
    The captain gasped as the sharp steel sliced
through his shirt and Hanrahan’s momentum drove the blade deep into his ribs.
 Hanrahan pushed the captain between himself and Corporal Whitney just as