Lord of Order Brett Riley (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📖

Someone had emerged from one of the buildings.

Ford frowned and checked his wound. He saw nothing new. I wish we hadn’t had to let our horses go, he said. I can’t run fast enough to do no good.

I got him, the girl said.

I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do from here.

Good luck, the kid said as she stood.

Lord be with you.

McClure left the rifle behind and ran east, Bandit pacing her. Ford turned away. Either the girl would prevail, or she would not. He had his own problems.

He grabbed ten sticks of dynamite and made a bundle with a fuse long enough for perhaps a minute. The Conspirators were pressing the enemy hard, keeping them too busy to think, but any time now, more Crusaders were apt to get jumpy. He had to keep them thinking more about their lives than their orders. Hunkering low, he crossed the street and crept behind the nearest building, a long, low edifice of crumbling red brick. He stood next to a window. Inside, Crusaders shouted to each other and fired at the Conspirators to the south. Ford took a match from his poke and struck it against the brick. Then he lit the fuse. It burned quicker than he would have liked, but there was no help for that. As the guns roared again, a great cacophony of blood and murder, he smashed in the window and dropped the dynamite inside. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could.

The Crusaders had covered all the explosives caches with tarps to protect them from the weather. Ford and McClure had already secured the tarp over the kegs of gunpowder and dynamite and plastique in the central cache, so he sprinted west. When the building exploded, a ball of fire shot into the sky and outward at least ten yards, shattering windows along the block. A second later, a fist of hot air struck Ford, taking his breath. He watched the caches, praying the tarps would keep any burning debris off the ordnance long enough for him to get back and put out the fire. Pieces of the building rained down, peppering the road with gnarled chunks of brick, splintered and burning wood, charred body parts. Ford dashed back to the central cache and threw a handful of burning boards off the tarp and over the storm wall.

Fewer sticks next time. Hell and damnation, my ribs hurt.

He pulled his sodden, sticky shirt away from the wound, wincing. He had no other bandage and would just have to fight with his rib exposed. Unless I drown in my own blood. He spat out a thick glob of gore and mucus. Then he pulled out his binoculars and scanned the next several tarps in both directions. No other fires on the caches. Thank you, Father God.

A handful of Crusaders burst from the building next door, which had caught fire on its eastern side. They goggled, mouths open, guns holstered. I don’t wanna shoot if I can help it. Then everybody will know I’m here. In their shock, the Crusaders had not even registered Ford’s presence. He reached into the central cache and grabbed four sticks of dynamite. He lit them one at a time and waited until the first had burned most of the way down. Then he threw that first stick as hard as he could, his whole torso afire. The dynamite arced end over end and landed on the guards’ roof. He threw the other sticks, groaning. Two guards spotted him as he tossed the last one, their eyes widening as they raised their weapons. Just then, the first stick blew, obliterating much of the building and driving shrapnel through their bodies. They fell and lay still. The other sticks exploded soon after, and the building fell to pieces with several Crusaders still inside. One man lay writhing and screaming just outside the edifice. He had lost a leg, both arms, and much of his face. Another stumbled out of the building’s skeleton, engulfed in flame. Blast it. Ford shot the flaming man to keep him away from the caches. Then he shot the dismembered guard out of mercy.

Crusaders boiled out of back doors and windows. Some saw him and pointed and raised their weapons.

If they shoot, they’ll hit the cache.

Ford dropped his guns and held up his hands.

A Crusader two buildings down started toward him. She thumbed back the hammer of her single-shot rifle.

And then, voices raised in bloodthirsty ululations, Conspirators hit the Crusaders from the west. The outlanders standing near the buildings died first as someone mowed them down with what sounded like a Gatling gun. Misting blood hung in the air like smoke. From the south, thousands of people surged upon the Crusader positions. Royster’s army emerged from back doors and windows, screaming as the Conspirators opened fire. Some were knifed. Some were beaten to death with rifle stocks or broken chains or bare fists. None got close to a cache.

Ford’s world spun as his rational thoughts evaporated. He sunk to his knees and shook his head, trying to clear it.

Moving slowly, moaning with every other breath, Ford pulled off his shirt. Then he crawled to the nearest piece of burning wood. He picked it up by its unlit end, turned it this way and that to find the right angle, and then jammed the fire against his wound.

He threw his head back and screamed, dropped the board, fell and curled into the fetal position. Everything went dark for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the fighting had not yet reached him.

Stay conscious. Don’t die. Get up and fight.

After a moment, he stood and limped east, hoping McClure was still alive.

48

As she left Ford at the cache, McClure ignored the sounds behind her and kept sprinting. What else could she do?

A woman emerged from a building twenty yards away. McClure fired on the run. The bullet punched through the Crusader’s rib