Chapter 6: Fuse and Counter-Fuse
1181 Words
Duncan tasted iron and adrenaline as he led the way through the back alleys, Trey on his left, Rachel on his right. The map burned a hole in his pocket; every line Trey had drawn was a heartbeat closer to sunrise. Forty-two rifles now lay wrapped in feed sacks, distributed to Solomon’s loft, Starr’s root cellar, Donal’s smokehouse. Wolf Crossing was armed, awake, and waiting.
They reached Freedom’s root cellar in twelve minutes flat. The trapdoor creaked open before Duncan could knock—Solomon’s grizzled face appeared, lantern held low. “Inside. Quiet.”
The cellar smelled of apples and damp earth. Thirty settlers crouched in the glow: Dove with a crossbow, Starr clutching a shepherd’s crook sharpened to a point, Donal cradling a rifle like it might bite him. Georgia stood at the ledger table, ink still wet on evacuation routes. No one spoke above a whisper.
Trey took the center. “West gate. Three wagons. Knotts rides lead. Nomads hit east at four bells—smoke and noise, nothing more. We let the patrol through the gate, bottle them in the thoroughfare, take the wagons. No fire. No collapse. We own the morning.”
Duncan unfolded the map across a crate. “Fuses first. Cellars are wired in three places—fairground well, Bamm’s icehouse, postal foundation. Cut the black cords, pull the powder barrels to the wagons. We use their own explosives to crater the road behind them. Trap becomes cage.”
Rachel’s voice cut clean. “Children and elders to the river skiffs at three-thirty. Starr leads. Georgia tallies heads. Anyone not fighting is gone before first light.”
Starr nodded, knuckles white on the crook. “Skiffs are loaded. Food, water, blankets.”
Solomon raised a gnarled hand. “Who commands the gate?”
“I do,” Duncan said. The words came out steadier than he felt. “Trey takes the rooftops with five shooters. Rachel and I hold the wagons. When Knotts dismounts, we take him alive. Questions first, bullets second.”
Trey’s eyes met his—wary respect, nothing more. “Alive works. Dead works better if he twitches.”
Rachel’s fingers brushed Duncan’s wrist. “No martyrs tonight.”
He covered her hand with his, brief as breath. “Copy that.”
They split into teams. Duncan, Rachel, and six others slipped out the back, moving low past sleeping goats and shuttered containers. The fairground well loomed ahead, boards warped, pulley rope frayed. Duncan knelt, pried the cover. The black fuse snaked down into shadow, glistening with oil.
Rachel produced clippers from her apron. “Hold the lantern.”
Steel bit cord. A soft hiss—then silence.
One down.
Bamm’s icehouse next. The diner owner met them at the rear door, apron swapped for a leather vest, eyes wide but steady. “Powder’s in the root pit. Fuse runs under the floorboards.”
Duncan crawled on his belly, splinters biting his palms. The barrel sat fat and smug, fuse already lit—slow match glowing like a demon’s eye. He pinched it out between gloved fingers, heart hammering so loud he swore the patrol could hear.
Two down.
Postal foundation last. Georgia had left the side hatch unlatched. Inside, the ledger room smelled of ink and fear. The final fuse disappeared into the crawlspace beneath the counter. Rachel lay flat, reached in, clipped. The cord went slack.
Duncan exhaled. “Settlement’s safe.”
Rachel’s smile was small, fierce. “Now we make it ours.”
They emerged into the pre-dawn hush. The thoroughfare lay empty, oil lamps guttering. Duncan checked his pocket watch—three-twenty. Ten minutes to skiffs, twenty to nomad smoke.
Trey’s whistle floated from the rooftops: two short. In position.
Duncan signaled back with a lantern flash. He and Rachel took cover behind the overturned market cart at the west gate. Rifles loaded, machete across her knees, his own blade at his belt. The air tasted of frost and gun oil.
Hoofbeats.
Three wagons rolled through the gate, wheels creaking, canvas flaps tied tight. Knotts rode point, hat low, badge catching starlight. Fifty men, just as Trey said. They moved confident, expecting an empty town.
Duncan’s thumb brushed the rifle stock. Wait. Wait.
The lead wagon cleared the gate. Second. Third.
Trey’s whistle shrilled—three long.
Rooftop rifles cracked. Patrol horses reared. Nomad smoke bombs burst at the east end—harmless colored clouds, but the chaos was real. Men shouted, wheeled, bunched tight in the thoroughfare bottleneck.
Duncan rose. “Now.”
He and Rachel sprinted. Settlers poured from doorways, containers, shadows—crooks, axes, rifles raised. The patrol found itself surrounded, wagons hemmed by bodies and blades.
Knotts yanked his revolver, eyes wild. “Stand down! Republic authority—”
Duncan’s rifle butt caught him across the temple. The CP crumpled like wet paper.
Rachel was already at the lead wagon, slicing canvas. Inside: not soldiers. Crates stamped MEDICAL SUPPLIES – BLIGHT TOWN.
She froze. “Duncan.”
He vaulted up beside her. Lifted a lid. Bandages, morphine, antibiotics—enough to supply a field hospital.
Trey dropped from the roof, landing cat-quiet. “Bait within bait. They wanted us to take the guns, burn the town, blame the Resistance. Republic rides in as saviors.”
Duncan’s laugh was sharp. “We just stole their miracle.”
Knotts groaned on the ground. Rachel knelt, pressed the machete to his throat. “Talk.”
The CP spat blood. “Too late. Signal went out. Real patrol—hundred men—hits at dawn.”
Duncan checked the sky. First pale streak on the horizon.
Rachel’s eyes met his. “We have the wagons. The medicine. The town.”
“And a hundred reasons to run,” Trey finished.
Duncan looked at the settlers—faces he’d known for years, now armed and ready. At Rachel, blonde hair escaping her shawl, machete steady. At the containers standing quiet and whole.
“No,” he said. “We have a hundred reasons to stay.”
He turned to the crowd. “Load the medicine into the Trading Post. Barricade the gates. Every rifle on the walls. We hold until the real patrol sees what we’ve taken—and what we’re willing to die for.”
Solomon’s voice rose, gravel and steel. “Wolf Crossing stands.”
A cheer—low, fierce—rippled through the settlers.
Duncan hauled Knotts to his feet, bound his wrists with the CP’s own belt. “You’re going to send a message. Tell your hundred men the settlement’s under new management.”
Knotts sneered. “They’ll raze it.”
“Let them try,” Rachel said. “We have the high ground, the supplies, and every reason to fight dirty.”
Trey clapped Duncan’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Resistance, drifter.”
Duncan looked at Rachel. Azure met green. No words needed.
The sun breached the trees, gilding the containers, the rifles, the faces of people who had chosen to stay.
Wolf Crossing was still standing.
And the day had only begun.
- Writer
