Previously on Sherwood

On a dark and stormy night, subject 432 breaks out of a secure lab. While evading Force soldiers through the abandoned Kansas countryside, he takes refuge in a crumbling farmhouse. There he befriends Mac, a tiny badger girl who has also escaped from a research facility. Together they travel to the barrier separating Oz from the rest of the Range. The two fugitives are intercepted by Force soldiers. Mac is gravely injured before 432 manages to bring down their assailants:

Mac lay with her hands clutched to her chest. She gasped desperately, her eyes gaping. Her shallow chest was crushed. 432 knelt beside her, touching her face lightly. She stared up at him, reaching for his hand.

“Mac,” he whispered pleadingly.

“Cah-lihb,” she sighed. The breath rushed from her lungs, and she stared vacantly up at the sky…

His insides were numb as he climbed the tower once again. The box at the top opened easily; the maze of wires remained exactly as he remembered. He quickly rerouted the system, and the barrier dissipated with a low moan.

He climbed back to the ground stopping for a last look at the tiny creature that had given up her life to save him. A few paces away, the stuffed monkey lay in a heap on the ground. 432 lifted it, fixing the skewed bowtie before laying it in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” he said.

He straightened, fixing his eyes ahead. The heaviness lifted from his limbs as he crossed into freedom.

“Sanctuary”

1

432 stumbled along the slick gravel. His legs dragged like lead anchors. His breath ran coarse and ragged. A fever raged in his eyes and glistened on his brow. A fine mist fell over the crumbling rooftops of the rustic mountain town. It had been years since 432 had set eyes on Sanctuary—back when he had worn a uniform instead of a brand.

A spurt of relief straightened him up as he noticed that Lee’s Saloon was still open. He lurched up the slumping wooden steps and through the swinging double doors. A hunched, brown-faced man in faded flannel looked up from behind the counter. The folds of his brow deepened as he set eyes on 432’s sallow face. He remembers me, thought 432, a prick of panic biting his chest.

“What’ll it be, stranger?” asked the bartender.

“Whatever you got,” rasped 432. Bob Lee, he remembered.

Bob Lee poured a shot of whiskey. 432 lifted it, but the stench of alcohol burned his nostrils like a breath of fire. He pushed the glass away, clutching the bar for support.

“You eaten’ anything, mister?” asked Bob.

“Not lately,” answered 432.

The bartender stepped back into the kitchen, returning with a bowl of hot stew. “Ain’t much, but…”

432 took the bowl, digging into the bland brown slop. The spoon shook in his hand. It had been several days since the last of Mac’s canned goods gave out. Bob Lee’s stew quieted the hunger pangs, but the deep, unfathomable pain still sucked at every nerve. Time was running out.

432 summoned his splintered voice. “Excuse me, sir. You know if Fort Adamson is still operating up the mountain?”

Bob’s eyes darkened, angry ridges creasing his face. “So it is. But I wouldn’t go knockin’ on that door, friend.”

432 nodded to the bartender and set a silver dollar on the bar. “Thank you, kindly.”      

Outside the saloon, he paused at the top of the steps. Across the square, a tall man locked in stocks looked out over the town from his high platform. His shirt hung in tatters over the whip strokes slashed into his back. At his side, a hard-faced young man in Force uniform stood at the base of the platform, his rifle in hand.

Nothing changes out here, thought 432. The clouds rolled back in his memory, bathing the square in harsh afternoon light…

Lieutenant Caleb Scarlock sat straight and tall on his horse, like a grim, marble statue. His heart drummed heavily in his chest. He glanced at the slight, fine-featured soldier on the horse beside him. Sergeant Aaron Gellar was no more than a kid. His intense blue eyes stayed fixed straight ahead in an attempt at stoicism.

Caleb signaled to the men behind him. Two Force soldiers dragged the thin, ragged farmer to the top of the platform. Brett Green, thought the Lieutenant. He never forgot a name. Brett Green moaned as the soldiers bent him roughly into the stocks, locking the top board over his neck and wrists.

“How long’s he up there for, Cal?” whispered Aaron.  

“As long as it takes for them to get the message,” Caleb answered, nodding to the small crowd forming in the square.

A young woman screamed curses, leaping onto the stairs like an angry panther. Two soldiers caught her, hauling her away from the platform. “Let him go, you thieving bastards!” she spat.

“It’s alright, Lizzy,” wheezed the old farmer. “Go home. Take care of your sister.”

“Quiet!” barked a soldier, striking Brett with the back of his hand.

“Hands off, Clyde,” ordered Caleb.

Clyde inclined his head, grumbling. Caleb turned to the wiry, bearded soldier pinning Lizzy’s arms behind her back. “Ford, escort Miss Green home. If you put so much as a hair outta line, you’ll answer to me.”

Ford nodded curtly and pulled the struggling Lizzy through the parting crowd. Aaron’s troubled gaze followed her, his face pinched and pale.

●●●

The setting sun found the two soldiers riding in the quiet, windswept fields below the solemn granite ridges that protected Fort Adamson.

“Do you think she got home safely?” asked Aaron, his brows lifted anxiously.

“Ford wouldn’t touch her. He knows I can smell a lie on him from a mile away,” answered Caleb.

“Farmer Green doesn’t have two stones to rub together. How can you tax nothing?”

“Everybody pays, Aaron. What do you think would happen if Velasquez and his rebels made it over the pass? They can’t afford to go without protection,” Caleb replied stone-faced.

“Well, when my uncle hears about what’s going on in Sanctuary—”

“This ain’t Atlanta, kid. This is the Range,” growled Caleb. “The law don’t give a rat’s ass about what goes on out here. Someone has to keep the peace. If we don’t do it then they’ll get someone like Clyde or that son of a bitch Lowry to do it. You know how that ends.”

 Aaron lowered his eyes, his jaw tight. A lock of fine black hair falling forward over his forehead covered his eyes, but Caleb sensed the tears fighting their way to the surface.

Caleb sighed. “Listen, I don’t like this much, but one man in the stocks beats the hell outta scorched fields and mutilations. We do what we gotta do. Ain’t nobody goin’ to hell over that.”

2

432 clawed his way up the granite wall. The gray rock bit into his hands, but he barely noticed the small irritation. He pulled himself onto the flat shelf at the top, collapsing for a moment. A bulging overhang jutted out overhead, forming a shallow cave.

432 dragged his quaking body under the meager covering. A moment ago, the fever blazed through him, but now it turned to ice in his bones. He pressed against the back wall, drawing his legs to his chest. The small gashes on his fingers had already begun to fade. Maybe I’ll rest a minute, he thought, his eyes drooping. Wandering on the edge of sleep, he saw two figures sitting in front of him huddled in their coats. A small fire crackled between them as the rain plunged beyond the overhang’s protection…

      Caleb rubbed his numb hands together over the low, hissing flames. “And it’s only gonna get colder after dark,” he chuckled wryly. “Christmas time’s comin’ our way.”

“Praise the Lord,” shivered Aaron, mustering a smile.

“I know what I’m askin’ for.”

“What’s that?” asked Aaron.

“General Velasquez’s head on a stick,” answered Caleb with a satisfied smirk.

Aaron nodded. “Sounds pretty good to me.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“Well, besides the so-called general’s surrender, I’d say…” Aaron lowered his eyes to the fire, a dreamy smile on his lips.

Caleb grinned, punching Aaron in the shoulder. “Oh I see. A girl. Amanda Cunningham?”

Aaron shook his head, his cheeks red. “Elizabeth Green.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Good luck, Romeo, ‘cause unless you can get her to look past that uniform, I’d say you ain’t got a snowflake’s chance in hell.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” sniffed Aaron.

Caleb shrugged. “She don’t seem like the forgiving type to me. But maybe I’m wrong.”  

A shot ricocheted from the cave above their heads. Caleb dove away from the fire as shards of loose rock exploded where he had been sitting. The two soldiers charged out into the downpour, their pistols primed. A shadow moved on the rocks below. Caleb fired, and a scream echoed down the valley.

Bullets sprayed around them. Men in ragged coats and patched hoods emerged from the deluge. One of the rebels leveled his gun at Aaron’s exposed back. “Get down!” Caleb shouted, flinging himself between Aaron and the gun. A raging inferno ignited in his left arm as he dragged Aaron to the ground. The rebels circled closer. Caleb lifted his pistol, a ferocious cry erupting from his throat. When the blind fury subsided, the hooded assailants lay quivering in the mud. Caleb dropped his gun, his arm falling limp at his side. Aaron’s face wavered above him, his voice far-off. “Hold on, Cal. Hold on. I’m getting help!”

3

Fort Adamson reared up from the mountainside a metal and concrete beast. Enormous solar panels angled back from the roof of the structure like a bizarre crown. The floodlights cast violent white light on the path leading to the front entrance.

432 climbed down an outcropping of warped granite, keeping beneath the watchtower sightline. A short venture into the belt of trees on the building’s eastern edge brought him to the blind side of Fort Adamson. He felt his way along the wall to the tell-tale patch of grass crushed down by boot prints. Guess someone else’s discovered it, thought 432.

He searched the bushes nearby. The old branch, whittled smooth, still rested in its hiding place. 432 lifted it up the wall, easily finding the concealed hook. The stick caught, and he pulled downward. A tiny section of the wall peeled open, revealing a dark tunnel leading into the fort.

As he replaced the stick in the bushes, a silver glint caught his eye. He picked up a tarnished rectangular locket on a delicate chain. The initials EG were etched into the top. 432 flicked the locket open. A faded photograph depicted a grim-faced woman with defiant brown eyes and heavy dark hair piled high on her head. 432 stared at the familiar scowl. He must’ve dropped it that night.

Caleb crouched in snarled bushes that butted up against the Fort wall like a futile siege force. The hatch opened with a rusty squeal. Aaron’s face appeared at the opening. He scanned the hillside and jumped down into the narrow cushion of grass just below the hatch. The enormous pack on his back nearly knocked him flat. Caleb stepped out from the brush as Aaron scrambled to his feet.

“Where you goin’, kid?”

Aaron froze for a second, then started walking as if no one had spoken. Caleb picked up a pebble and chucked it at Aaron’s head. It bounced off the back of his skull with a dull ping.

“Damn it, Cal!” Aaron faced him, his cheeks blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” demanded Caleb.

“People are dying down there, and I can’t just sit back and watch!”

“I ain’t covering your ass again,” snarled Caleb. “Captain Miller knows someone’s taking supplies, and they’re looking for the thief.”

“You think I care?” burst Aaron. “I promised Lizzy that I would set things right. Someone’s got to!”

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Caleb barked. “What d’you think is gonna happen if Miller don’t find a scapegoat soon? It’s those people down there in Sanctuary that’s gonna pay. Lizzy will pay.”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Aaron stubbornly pushing onward. “I’ll turn myself in.”

Caleb seized him roughly by the shoulder and dragged him back. “Miller ain’t gonna think twice about putting a bullet in your skull.”

Aaron pushed Caleb away. “Somebody has to do something around here, Cal. And if you won’t, then I will.”

Caleb watched the thin figure walking away with shoulders thrown back. With a frustrated growl, Caleb jogged after him.

Aaron glared obstinately. “Go back, Cal.”

Caleb shook his head. “I ain’t gonna sit back and let you get yourself killed. I’m comin’ with you.”

4

The tunnel ended at a high grate in a janitorial closet outside the east barracks. 432 lifted the panel from its place and lowered himself down into the cluster of mops and brooms. He opened the door cautiously, peering out into the darkened corridor. Clear.

432 hustled down the deserted hallway. The floor dipped beneath him, and he nearly pitched forward onto his hands. Almost there, he thought. Come on!

He lurched onward deliriously, mechanical habit leading him to the storeroom on the lower floor where they kept the medical supplies. His vision blurred as he searched among the cold storage units in the back, his breath short and gasping. At last he located the shelves labeled BDRT, but the little blue vials were locked securely behind the frosted glass.

An animal roar gripped his throat, and he slammed his fist through the glass. Shaking the shards from his fist, he seized one of the cartridges. He found a syringe in one of the supply cupboards.

The cool relief rushed through him the moment the serum entered his blood, relaxing his taut muscles and slowing his heart. He collapsed onto his knees, inhaling deeply.

Pounding footsteps crowded the hall outside. 432 stood, baring his teeth for a fight. Soldiers gushed through the doors, their weapons ready. 432 lunged for the nearest man, but his knees turned to jelly, and he plunged to the ground. A gun barrel nosed against his back.

“Get up slowly, hands behind your head,” commanded a gruff voice.

432 rose. Two soldiers seized his arms, towing him from the supply room.

A stately, broad-shouldered officer met them at the end of the corridor. His uniform was pressed and immaculate, his dark hair combed back neatly. Ridged scars deformed the top of his forehead and turned down the corner of his mouth. A black patch covered his right eye. The other, a bright, penetrating blue, glared at 432 with fierce intensity.

“Caleb Scarlock?” he asked quietly.

432 stared at him, realization dawning slowly in his fevered brain. “Aaron,” he gasped.

The officer’s hawkish gaze brushed over the mark on his captive’s forearm. His remaining eye grew dangerously pale as it flicked to his former friend’s face. “So you’re the one they’re looking for.”

“It’s not what it seems, Aaron,” said 432.

The officer straightened, his lips sinking into a scowl. “Lieutenant Gellar,” he corrected imperiously. Aaron nodded to the soldiers. “Lock him up.”

The first shots sputtered on the lower end of the pass just after sunrise. Aaron turned to Caleb, his cheeks draining white. “They couldn’t have crossed the mountains already,” he breathed.

“I think that old bastard Velasquez’s got a few aces up his sleeve,” said Caleb, unslinging his rifle.

More frenzied gunfire thundered over the pass. Caleb and Aaron hustled down the trail the other sentinels close behind them. They rounded the bend in time to see a geyser of dirt and stone launch three Force soldiers screaming onto their backs. Rebels in mismatched hoods hurtled over the crest of the lowest hill. Some carried rifles, while others hefted wicked-looking blades, lead pipes, and any other heavy object picked up on their cross-country march.

Caleb planted himself on a high, protective boulder. He caught a masked rebel in his scope and pulled the trigger. The rebel jerked backward, a steaming hole in the forehead of his hood. Caleb aimed and shot again, pausing for a moment to reload. A deafening blast tore the boulder from beneath Caleb’s feet. He tumbled over the ragged hillside, rolling to his knees. Caleb shook his head, waiting for the world to steady.

A howling rebel slashed at his head with a gore-smeared machete. Caleb leaped back, the whoosh of the blade hissing in his ear. He reached for his pistol, but the explosion had dislodged it from its holster. The rebel swung recklessly again. Caleb caught his arm and drove a knee into his side. The rebel crumpled with a gasp. Caleb ripped the machete from his slack grip and cut him down with a single stroke.

Lower on the pass Aaron fought off a blue and red-hooded swarm with a short-handled axe and a bowie knife. One of the masked militants shouted a warning, and the others scattered.

Caleb’s heart stalled. “Get down!” he hollered, but the grenade blast drowned him out. Aaron blasted backward in a spray of pulverized rock.

Caleb loosed a feral roar, wildly hacking a path through the faceless enemy. Aaron lay quivering in the clearing smoke. The side of his face was a melted mass of raw, glistening flesh, his left eye welded shut. Caleb dropped onto his knees, trying in vain to comfort his friend’s agonized cries.

On the fort side of the pass, Captain Miller’s reinforcements scythed through the enemy with semi-automatic fire. The rebels folded back, their advance faltering.

“Hold on, buddy,” grunted Caleb. “I got you.”

He heaved Aaron over his shoulder and sprinted headlong up the pass.

5

432 sat on the cold, dank ground, his head resting against the bars of his cell. Keys clattered in the lock and Aaron entered alone, a satchel slung over his shoulder. He pulled a chair from the far wall, sitting down near the bars, just out of reach.

“They told me you were dead,” rasped 432.

“I heard the same of you,” replied Aaron. His eye traveled down to the numbers tattooed on his arm. “From what I’ve heard of the Institutes, I guess it was true enough.”

“Well, things ain’t always what they seem,” said 432.

“How are you even here? You still look like you. More or less.”

432 shrugged. “I’m different than the others.”

Aaron inclined his head. “I guess so. There’s quite a bounty on your head. I could be retired by breakfast if I had a mind to.”

432 turned away, glowering at the floor “Then make the call.”

“The phones have been down for five years now. And I don’t think I can spare a rider.”

Aaron unlocked the cell door and lowered the satchel to the floor.

“I think you’ll find what you came for in here.”

432 peered into the satchel as Aaron turned to leave. Blue cartridges marked BDRT were nestled inside a coiled towel. “Wait,” called 432.

Aaron turned, his eyebrows raised curiously. 432 pulled the locket from his jeans’ pocket and held it out. Aaron gaped, speechless. 432 laid the trinket in his hand. The locket clicked open. Aaron sighed, his face softening into a sad smile. “Lizzy,” he murmured.

Aaron’s gaze lingered on the photograph a moment, then he closed the locket, and fastened the chain around his neck. “I hear there’s safe country out in Montana,” he said. “Places a man can disappear.”

432 shouldered the satchel. “Thanks.”

Aaron nodded “Good luck, Cal.”

The corridors were deserted when 432 returned to the safe passage through Fort Adamson’s unnoticed arteries. He paused to glance at the boot prints captured in the grass below the hatch, imagining Aaron stealing away in the middle of the night, his uniform disguised under a heavy black coat. I guess Sanctuary still has its protector after all, he thought.