Chapter 28. Exodus

For the next day, everyone in the Army of Darkness was busy loading the trucks. They wanted to take everything with them, but there was not room, and there were things they would need to get at the Maestro's palace to take with them. If the attack were successful. And there was a good chance it would be. A single scout on horse had confirmed that the Maestro, despite the worsening of his insanity, had indeed left on his seasonal trip to collect taxes, food, women, and anything else that took his fancy.

It had already been thought out and discussed several times in the past few months, what they would need to bring along from the caves, what would have to be left behind, and what would have to be destroyed, lest their enemies gain from finding it. There were good reasons for what they did, but the actual doing of it, now that the time had finally come, was still sad.

Most of the animals had to be left behind. The pigs had been slaughtered and eaten the previous night, precisely because there was not room for them. Aster had found out from the Millers and the other people from Wisconsin what sort of livestock they had. Most of it was much like what the people in New York had, but there were differences. Some sort of plague had killed most of the chickens, shortly after the war, and they were still scarce. Whatever plague had killed them was still around, and there were frequent outbreaks of it. They used ducks for eggs. They had cattle, but also a sort of very large goat called a 'Gruff'. It was good for milk, and light draft work.

Then there were Daniel Wolfkiller's horses, and a few chickens. The hybrid Percherons were large, according to the people from Wisconsin, larger than most of the horses there. And a large horse could save a man a lot of work. Aster recommended taking as many horses as possible, as well as the few pets people had, but leaving the chickens. Whatever plague was killing the chickens in Wisconsin would no doubt kill unexposed chickens even faster. Most of the chickens were killed and stewed for their meals that day. The rest were let go to fend for themselves. Aster doubted if they would survive.

Hay and grain and the best of the horses were loaded into the truck. The remaining horses were also let go. Aster gave them a better chance than the chickens, they could tolerate the cold better, and there was more forage for them than for the poultry. There were a few goats, as well, but after Aster and Daniel Wolfkiller discussed the subject of goats at length with the people from Wisconsin, they had decided to free the goats as well. The goats they had did not sound as if they produced more milk, or more wool, or more meat than those in Wisconsin. They could get new goats there, if they wanted, and in the meantime, they had only a limited amount of space. Besides, the 'Gruffs' sounded interesting.

The only mule they had was suffering from an infected hoof. Daniel Wolfkiller shot it with his rifle, bringing several boos and hisses that he ignored. A few members of the Army suggested salting down the mule meat, but were also booed and hissed at. They had full stomachs from the chicken, and there would be plenty of meat to steal from the Maestro's palace. And other food as well. The soldiers in the Army of Darkness tried to alleviate the anxiety of the imminent battle by discussing what sorts of foods were stored away there. Aster, as one the only one other than Daniel Wolfkiller who had firsthand knowledge of the matter, was questions several times, but the answers she gave were quickly exaggerated by the hungry people, so that her reports of pies a foot or so across became, after a few tellings, tall tales of pies so large that the Maestro himself could have been baked inside one.

They had no cattle. Cattle were highly prized by Maestro, who (before his tastes had turned to human flesh) had been a glutton for steaks, roast beef, milk, and cheese, whenever he could get it. Stealing cattle would have been too risky.

There was little other food, save for several sacks of dried beans. They were all thoroughly sick of beans by this time, but they packed them. They were good, non-perishable protein. They would need them. Then, since the animals had been taken care of, they began packing all their non-living goods. Clothing. Fabric. There was not much of that. What books they had, and a few pieces of jewelry, much of it broken.

Then they began packing tools. The tools had been the subject of the most lengthy discussions, over the past few months. They had some power tools, and a large assortment of hand tools. The power tools were of dubious value. They required electricity. They had run them off the truck engines, while in the Underworld, but someday in the future the truck engines would wear out, and they might not be able to repair them. They certainly had no way of making more. The people in Wisconsin were strangely evasive, and gave contradictory stories as to whether or not there was any electricity available where they had come from, and how reliable it was. During one such discussion with Dave Miller, Aster had finally gotten disgusted and told him that it was obvious that his children (meaning Patricia) had gotten what few brains they had from their mother, and that she was going to find out what the power situation was in Wisconsin sooner or later, and that if he knew what was good for him, he would make it sooner.

All that this temper tantrum got her was the older man screaming at her that she was a 'bloody murderer' and he came at her with his fists, until she gave him a solid thump in the stomach with her staff. This had resulted in both of them getting tossed out of the meeting by General Monroe and Dave Miller had been sent to wash dishes with the old women while Aster had been sent to clean the Army pit toilets. She didn't care. The work gave her time to contemplate just what sort of guilty secret the people from Wisconsin were hiding.

In the end, they brought all of the hand tools and most of the power tools. Aster had taken several of the latter apart, and decided that even if there was no electricity at all in Wisconsin, they could probably be adapted for use without electricity, by putting them on a hand crank, or running a belt to some sort of pedals. They had to be of some use. Daniel Wolfkiller and a few other men were fair blacksmiths and could make a pretty fair steel, but nothing like what had been made before the War.

There were a few 'tanker' trucks, filled with the alcohol that fueled all the trucks. Then a few 'flatbeds' with rusty bulldozers on top. Dave Miller and the other people from Wisconsin, although they were strangely reluctant to talk about conditions in their home state, had no such reticence in discussing the conditions of the roads between Milwaukee and Dystopia. And the conditions were not good. There were very few inhabitants in the radioactive wastelands, and most of them had more important concerns than maintaining roads for vehicles that were rare relics from the pre-War days, and that for the most part they did not own themselves. A century of time had not been kind to what had once been a cross-country highway system. The roads were crumbling in many places, bridges were collapsed, and in places were blocked by rocks, trees, and abandoned vehicles. The Wisconsonites had for the most part driven around these obstacles in some fashion, but they had come in vans and had had an immunity to radiation at the time. The trucks that they were now using were far larger and less maneuverable, and they didn't want to spend any more time in the radiation than they had to. Any impassable roads would be made passable, and any blocked roads would be unblocked. And that would be done as forcibly and quickly as possible. And heaven help anyone who tried to stop them.

Aster did not mention the notion she had for protecting even the truck drivers from the radiation. She wasn't sure she would be able to find what she needed, or if it even existed, and did not want to give them false hopes.

And of course, there was Aster's truck. Mostly empty for now, except for some battered, pre-war '55 gallon' barrels. That would, she hoped, soon change. There were a great many things she needed to get from the Maestro's palace when they conquered it.

If they conquered it. No, she mustn't think negatively. She needed to assume they would succeed.

For now, other than the barrels, all her truck contained was a small chest of her belongings, set next to a bad smelling mattress that was behind the seat. It had her clothes, a few tattered books, the picture of her family. The costume and makeup she would wear to disguise herself as a Betty to sneak into the castle. The gun and knife. And a bottle. Dark green, and sloshing with liquid, and well protected by several layers of soft cloths. General Monroe had handed it to her a few days ago.

"What you asked for." He told her in a low voice, handing her both the bottle, and a small jar. Aster wasn't nearly as worried about the jar, as she was the bottle, and tucked it into a pocket so she could cradle the bottle with two hands, lest it fall. Despite the green color of the glass, the whole thing seemed to glow red in the sunlight, which was dimmed through clouds. Or maybe it was just Aster's mind playing tricks on her. The contents of that bottle were highly dangerous. Hopefully to her enemies, but potentially to her, if she was careless.

Monroe glanced at Aster's truck. The entire trailer was empty, a dark, gaping maw through the open doors in the rear. All the barrels did was make jagged shapes, almost like teeth. The sun glinted red off a few shallow puddles on the trailer's floor. Oil. Alchohol. Water. The latter of which the barrels had been filled with. There was no guarantee of safe drinking water between Dystopia and Milwaukee, so every truck carried at least a few large barrels, for drinking only. There would be no washing.

"Quite a lot of room in there." He commented. The nearly hidden barrels were all that Aster had on the trailer. She had, of course, no intention whatsoever of actually keeping all of the water, but General Monroe did not need to know that. "What are you planning on filling it with?"

Aster looked at General Monroe as if he were insane. "Do you honestly expect me to tell you that? And does it really matter to you?"

He gave her a sour look. Normally he'd be inclined to threaten and beat the information out of her, but there was no more time for that, and he needed her cooperation. If she could get those damn lights out, it would greatly increase the odds of taking the Maestro's palace, and drastically reduce their casualties. There was a price for everything in war, he knew, and the price for this, for the sword and shield protecting his two children, was to let a madwoman engage in her madness. It was a small enough price. Unlike what passed for sanity in most other people, Aster's particular type of madness was not a danger to his children.

Which of course raised the unpleasant question of whether it was her that was mad, or everyone else. It had been the so-called 'sane' people who had fought the War a hundred years ago, and the same sort of 'sane' people who would kill his two children for whatever political power they thought it might gain them. And destroying the future of your own species was hardly an act of sanity. It was actually ironic when you thought about it. The only one in his army who was mentally fit to care for children was physically unable to have them. Probably one of God's amusing little jokes on a world he no longer had any use for.

"No, it doesn't really matter to me." General Monroe told her. Let Aster go to hell in her own way. He certainly was. Everyone in what was left of the world, was. "You don't like me much, do you?"

"No." It was pointless to deny the obvious.

"Can I ask why not?"

Aster looked in the trailer, as if she expected something to be hiding in the shadows. "I don't like being bossed. I don't like people who like to boss others. I had enough of that with the Maestro. And I didn't like it when you hung that man."

"It had to be done." Aster just looked at the ground. General Monroe took her chin and roughly forced her to look at him. "What would you have had me do? Let him go? If he didn't betray us, then once others saw that I let him go, someone else would have. We'd all be dead. You know that, don't you. I had to stop him, destroy him, for the good of us all."

"I know that." Aster said bitterly. "I didn't like it, but I didn't stop you. All I cared about was my own skin."

She couldn't put into words the rest of what she was feeling. That she was worse than General Monroe was, because she knew it was somehow wrong to kill a man just because he had been unlucky enough to have his family held as hostages by the Maestro, but that she also knew it had to be done, and didn't have the courage to do it herself. Instead, she let a sociopath do her dirty work. It made her miserable.

"I don't like it." She said. "It wasn't his fault. It seems like there should have been a better way. A way to spare his life, but still protect everyone here."

"Wishful thinking. You've read too many fairy tales. There's no sure way to destroy a man, other than by killing him. If you ever find a way, smart girl, you be sure to let me know." Never mind that he would be dead long before such a thing could ever occur.

I'll find a way, someday. Aster thought defiantly to herself. She stepped onto a bar set in the rear of the trailer, reached up, and slammed the doors. It was nearly time to leave. Some of the trucks had already started their engines.

"What was his name?" Aster asked General Monroe?

"His name? Whose?" He honestly didn't know what Aster was talking about.

"The man you hung." Did human life mean that little to him?

"Oh…" He actually had to struggle to recall it. He had killed so many in his life. "Fred Black. Frederick Black. Something like that. Why does it matter? He's dead."

Aster shook her head, and turned, suppressing a shudder as she walked towards the truck she hated. "He said the Maestro had his family. I'm going into that palace. Maybe I'll find them. Alive."

She left General Monroe gaping at her back.

The trip back to Dystopia did not take nearly as long as the trip out of it. The trucks were much faster than wagons had been. What had taken a couple of days by wagon took only a few hours by truck. Of course, they could not get too close to the city, or the trucks would be spotted. Then someone would call the Maestro on the radio, and as strong and fast as he was, it would not take him long to return, even if he were miles away.

The radio had to be taken out, of course. That was even more important than getting the lights out. There was still hope for taking the palace, even with the lights working, so long as the Maestro was not there. If he came back, there was no hope at all.

They had timed the trip so that it was just past sunset, with barely enough light to still drive by, when they came within 5 miles of Dystopia. There, they stopped, and parked the trucks. They would walk the rest of the distance. If they got any closer, the trucks would be seen or heard, despite the darkness. They left only the very oldest men and women and the youngest children with the trucks. They could not fight, but the men could drive. If the attack on the palace succeeded, runners would be sent back to inform the men driving the trucks. Then, and only then would they take the trucks into Dystopia, to be filled with as much useful loot as they could. If nobody came within two days… they would use the trucks to try and escape. To get to Wisconsin, if they could. It was not likely that they would succeed. A few old people and children with only what they had loaded from the mines probably couldn't fight or buy their way through to Wisconsin or into whatever society existed there. As for finding somewhere around Dystopia to hide… there was no place to go, and little left to eat. Possibly they could trade the tools and Wolfkiller's horses for sanctuary for the children. Then again, possibly not. The Maestro was going to be furious when he discovered what they had done and who in their right mind would risk his wrath in exchange for a few horses and saws?

If the Army failed, the children and elderly on the trucks were probably doomed. But they would not fall into the hands of the Maestro. There was a chest with dried nightshade berries in the cab of one of the trucks. More than enough to kill those who were staying behind. And those who were attacking each had a parchment envelope with the berries as well. Poison was better than what they would face at the hands of the Maestro.

Aster got out of the truck, with the rest of the Army. They all wore their uniforms. Their faces were grim, and more than one of them touched the parchment envelope of nightshade berries they had in their pockets, before quickly jerking their hands away, and looking eastwards, towards Dystopia, with hate etched deep on their faces. Failure was, possibly, an option, but falling into the hands of the Maestro was not. They were all agreed on that. Not that they wouldn't try to escape, rather than kill themselves, but without taking the palace and looting it for the literally tons of weapons and supplies they needed to survive, they would have precious little to escape with, and nowhere that they would be able to go.

Aster had her costume in a rough, hemstitched backpack, along with her weapons, climbing equipment, and the special bottle that General Wolfkiller had given her. She tugged on the straps, adjusting it to a more comfortable position. A short, thin man she didn't know stood near her, with a similar backpack. General Monroe said he was the best 'free climber' in the Army. Aster wasn't quite sure what that meant, or why climbers should possibly be paid when no-one else in the Army was. His backpack held climbing equipment just like Asters, but also tools rather than a costume. Aster didn't envy the man. Aster only had to climb a little over 2 stories up the side of the palace, on a rope that had been knotted to make it easier for her weak, woman's arms, so she could sneak in an open window or balcony on the third floor. Even with the overly-high ceilings in the palace, designed to accommodate the Maestro's height, she was going up less than 30 feet. Which was higher than the acrophobic Aster wanted to go, but the man next to her, whose job it was to disable the radio antenna, had to climb the entire height of the tallest tower on the palace.

It's true the man was going to be a hero, and Aster felt miffed that her job was only second in importance next to his, but she didn't care. She was far to frightened of heights to do what the 'free climber' was going to do. She'd be lucky if she could climb the 2 ½ stories that she needed to, without freezing. She would just have to keep from looking down, and keep her mind on the numerous excellent reasons she had for wanting to hurt and kill the Maestro any way she could.

Besides, she was no hero.

The Army divided into small groups. Between 5 and 20 people. A group as large as the entire Army of Darkness would attract attention. They didn't want attention. The darkness and stealth were their allies, as they were for all night predators, like the bat and the cat. They would not be seen or heard until they attacked, and then it would be too late for their enemies. At least, so they hoped. If everything went well.

The groups separated, taking different routes, some distance apart, and meandering towards the palace. It would only be when they were within sight of it, and it was time to attack, that they would rejoin again. Each group had two Pre-War watches. They had to be within sight of the Palace by midnight, and the attack would take place either when Aster got the lights out, or at exactly 2:34 in the morning, whichever came first.

Besides the 'free climber' there were 8 other men and 3 women with Aster. She thought she knew a few of them. Gerald Bueler. The woman was Constance Bennet, one of those who had called Aster 'Puta' until Aster had put a stop to it by knocking those women down. It didn't matter now. She was one of Aster's allies. One of the Army of Darkness. At least, so long as the attack on the palace lasted. Afterward, if she mouthed off to Aster again, Aster would knock her down again. But not now.

It was strange, coming back into Dystopia. When Aster had left it with Daniel Wolfkiller she had thought she would never return. Had it only been a few months ago? It seemed longer. The hot, dry autumn had turned into a dry spring. Not much was sprouting. It never did. The spring seemed almost more like autumn; what plants there were looked as if they were preparing to die rather than to live. In fact, the whole city was visibly less alive than it had been when Aster had left. She recognized some of the houses as they went past them. There were the houses made of old railroad cars, which last fall, had been surrounded by clucking turkeys. Now, several of the houses were smashed, and most of the turkeys gone. Aster saw a few of them, looking half starved, and there were feathery lumps lying in the mud. She shook her head. That was not good. Leaving dead animals lying about would likely sicken the living ones. But from the looks of the converted railroad cars, most of them had been abandoned. Any owners who might have buried the dead turkeys long gone. Only a few had lights showing, and those looked to be candles rather than lanterns, and hidden behind curtains as if the owners feared anyone knowing that they were still around. Aster glanced at the coverted box cars that had been smashed, and wondered what the people who had lived there had done to offend the Maestro. Probably nothing. Or merely owning turkeys, when the green monster felt like stuffing his face with them. Which amounted to nothing, so far as Aster was concerned.

The small group of soldiers Aster was with brought a few glances, but nobody seemed very interested in them. There seemed less people on the streets, even so late at night, than there had been, and those people who were on the streets were traveling in well armed groups, pretty much indistinguishable from the one Aster was with. They drew suspicious glances, which turned relieved when they did not offer to fight anyone else, but no more than that. Taverns and brothels that should have been open until near dawn were mostly closed, and those that were open had bars on the windows and strong looking guards standing on either side of their doors. Aster shook her head. If the Maestro should choose to smash those buildings, neither the bars nor the guards would slow him down in the least.

One of the taverns, Aster remembered, had had a large apple tree growing in front of it. It was known for the hard cider it had brewed and served. The apple tree was still there, but there was something wrong with it. It should have been showing tender leaves at this time of year. Even though there had been little rain, the roots of the tree went deep enough to tap into groundwater. But there were no leaves, and only a few half-withered buds that looked like they might possibly become leaves or flowers, but would more likely dry up and fall off.

"Hold on a moment." Aster said to the other members of the Army of Darkness. The condition of the tree was odd enough that she wanted a closer look at it. She took a torch from one of the men, and held it closer to the tree. There were several piles of crusty lumps of something around the base of the tree, hard to see in the dark. Aster ran her finger across one of the piles, and tasted it with the tip of her tongue. Bitter. She spat several times, until the taste was out of her mouth. Someone had deliberately poisoned the tree. God only knew why. There weren't that many apple trees left in Dystopia. Or very many trees of any kind.

Some sort of slimy fungus, about the only wet thing on a tree that should have been damp with new spring leaves, was growing on the trunk. It was maroon colored, looking almost like blood dripping from the tree. Aster shook her head.

"And the red death held indomitable sway over all." She muttered as she handed the torch back to the man who had lent it to her.

"What's that?" He said, not hearing her half-whispered words.

"Nothing." Aster shook her head. Except for the spots where the blood-looking fungus grew, the tree seemed dried and mummified. "Nothing important. Something from a book I once read. It doesn't matter. This place is dying. The Maestro is killing it. He might kill himself as well, but it doesn't matter. I don't think anyone will be able to live here, anymore, after a while. General Monroe is right. We need to get out."

About fifteen minutes after they had passed the tavern with the dead apple tree, they drew within sight of the Maestro's palace. A few other groups of soldiers from the Army of Darkness were already nearby, but had been waiting for Aster's group. They needed the lights, and most importantly, the radio, disabled, before they dared attack. Aster and the other soldiers with her nodded at the groups they passed, but said nothing.

They cut sidewise a few blocks, then circled around to the back of the palace, somewhere between the stables and the charnel pits. Or rather, where the stables had been. It appeared that most of the horse barns had been knocked down, probably by the Maestro in an insane fit, though Aster saw the skeleton shapes of wooden frames with a few sections of walls and roofing on them. Evidence of rebuilding by someone, but a rather poor job of it. From what she remembered, the old stables had had support beams that measured 2x8, and cut neatly at matching angles. The new structures looked at if they were made of 2x4's, cut with straight ends and nailed together by someone who didn't know much about carpentry. The first heavy snow would probably cave it in. Not that it snowed much in Dystopia. But the buildings still wouldn't last. Aster kicked lightly at the bottom of one of the half-finished walls as they snuck past them. The wood was resting directly on the ground, rather than on stone foundations, the support beams not even buried to steady them. It was leaning slightly to one side, and already starting to rot. The whole structure looked like an over-sized fort made by ignorant children, who knew nothing at all about construction. The sort of thing that would last a year or three, before they outgrew it and it fell down without their knowing or caring. But perhaps ignorant people were all that were left, to try to rebuild the stables.

The stink of the charnel pits grew worse, as they snuck closer to them. Aster looked down for a moment, then away. She didn't like heights, and didn't want to see her sister's body. Not that she was likely to see what was left of Thumb, even if it hadn't been dark, other bodies had no doubt been thrown on top of her sister in the months since the Maestro had raped her to death.

One of the soldiers with her was taking out some grappling hooks, the ends padded with leather. So this was it. Aster looked up. The window she needed to climb in was dark. Nobody in the palace liked to be too close to the smells coming from that pit, unless they had to. Climbing and getting in would probably be safe. She was not likely to be seen or heard. But it seemed terribly high up, as if she were climbing 300 feet, rather than a mere 30 or so. And what if she fell, and somehow fell outwards, into that awful pit of bodies? She could be hurt, and trapped in that living grave, and never get out again. She'd spend the rest of her life in that stinking hell.

Aster forced herself to look down again, imagining her sister's body in one of the lumpy shapes down below, ripped in half by that green bastard's oversized cock. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She needed the hate. It was the only thing stronger than the fears she had inside her.

"Let's do this." She told the man with the hook. He was attaching the thick rope to it, with a complex knot. Another man was fitting an arrow with a grappling hook for a tip and a slender cord attached to a crossbow. She shivered. She was damn glad she didn't have to climb that rope, to disable the radio antenna. Her rope at least had knots to hold on to, and was thick and solid. Aster had insisted on that, even though General Monroe had tried to convince her that the thin cords were perfectly safe. He had even had her hang from a thin cord, then hung three times her weight from one of them, just to prove they were strong. But it was no good. Aster knew they were safe. But she couldn't believe it. Not enough to make herself climb one higher than 6 feet or so. In the end, General Monroe had had to give in. Aster was the only one who knew her way around the palace, and if she could only climb a thick rope, then someone would just have to carry the weight, no matter how hard it was on them.

Then there was a long period of waiting. The radio had to be disabled first, before Aster could try to get the power out. The guards would probably not notice that a wire to the radio had been cut. It wasn't as if they were constantly chattering to the Maestro 24 hours a day. But they would definitely notice when the lights went out. Or when they were attacked by the rest of the Army of Darkness. They would try to contact the Maestro about that. If they could. The man climbing to the radio antenna needed to make sure that they couldn't. If he failed, the attack would have to be called off, and everything they had planned would come to nothing.

Aster watched as the man called a 'free climber' pulled himself up a slender rope that she would never have been able to have faith in. Once he was about halfway up the palace, he vanished in the shadows, and she and the others with her kept gazing upwards, wondering if the man was still climbing… if he had reached the antenna… if he was even now disabling it. Or if he had been caught… killed… the alarm raised… and even now, guards coming in search of them.

He at least hadn't fallen. They would have heard it if he had fallen.

Fifteen long minutes went by. Then twenty. It was eerie. It reminded Aster of when she and Thumb had waited in a dark basement for their father, not knowing if he would ever return. Then there was a shape. A white strip of cloth, an old metal nut sew to one side for weight, came fluttering down from unseeable heights. One of the men hooted like an owl, twice. That was the signal. The radio had been disabled. The man would stay where he was, until the attack was over. If he descended before the attack, he might be caught and the alarm raised, and it would be far too dangerous for him to attempt the long climb down during the attack, with bullets and arrows and who knew what else whizzing around.

And now it was Aster's turn. She had almost forgotten, while waiting for the 'free climber' to signal that he had disabled the radio. Fearful, she looked up the the dark, open, third story window she had to climb through. It was only 30 feet up. She had thought it looked like 300.

Now, it seemed almost like 3000.