Page 3 of Empowereds

3

M ilo had been telling the truth about the bullet only hitting the side of his hand. The wound was still deep enough that it needed to be seen by a doctor, or at least by Charity’s mother, who’d been a nurse once. But Milo wasn’t about to leave without taking some of the slavers’ booty.

Charity bandaged his hand the best she could and gave him a painkiller from the first aid box. He refused to take the really strong stuff because he didn’t want to get drowsy. He insisted on standing guard, gun in hand, in case the raiders returned.

“If you help us load up supplies,” Milo told the captives, “we’ll do everything we can to free you.”

Besides Callum, ten men were at the market. They were dirty and bedraggled, their long hair nearly covering the collars around their throats. They all eyed the harvesters suspiciously and kept their distance, as though Milo’s offer was a trick, and he might decide to sell them to some disreputable farmers, or worse, another group of slavers.

“If we can unlock their computer,” Callum said, “I can figure out how to turn off the signal to our collars.” He wiped his palms on his pants. “You’ll let me try, right? I can do that while you’re loading stuff.”

Milo cocked his head skeptically. “Do you know anything about computer programs? Because if you don’t, you could make things worse.”

Callum nodded, quick, fast nods that showed his eagerness. “I was attending tech school when they captured me. If I can’t turn off the signal, I should be at least able to modify the perimeters so that the containment area encompasses a few hundred miles, enough so we can reach hospitals.”

Only specialized surgeons could remove the collars without risk of puncturing the carotid artery. It was the way slave owners kept their slaves from running. If they went beyond the boundaries set by their masters, the collars sent out debilitating shocks.

The men grudgingly helped load the trucks. If they didn’t trust the harvesters, they at least had some trust in Callum’s skill. Milo dragged the bearded slaver into the main tent that housed the collars and laptop. The man’s fingerprints unlocked the computer. Callum sat on the ground, brows furrowed, and worked.

Charity envied the way his fingers flew over the screen, stopping every once in a while to type a flurry of commands on the keyboard. You had to be really smart to go to a tech school. Perhaps that’s why the slavers wanted him.

Charity didn’t find any of the items on her parents’ list among the slavers’ things except for gasoline, and there was enough of that to make them far richer than when they’d come.

They took the lion’s share of the fuel along with some of the market goods. The Huntingtons’ haul was much better than the captives’, but the Huntingtons had been the ones to kill the slavers, and besides, no one was going to question their authority when they had all the guns.

The slavers had conveniently stripped their vehicles of security tech. Milo did an electronics swipe on them anyway in case they’d added their own tracking devices. The Huntingtons claimed two of the four usable trucks, plus loaded more goods onto their Jeep’s trailer.

Charity could tell when Callum managed to turn off the collars’ signals. All of the men, at the same moment, sighed in relief and reached up to touch their necks. After that, a couple of the men left the trucks, stalked over to one of the dead men, and kicked him repeatedly.

Some of the captives egged the two on, giving them suggestions of what else they could do to the bodies.

Their actions were a waste of time and brutal, but she understood their rage. Maybe she would’ve done the same thing if she’d been a slave.

With the exception of Callum, the captives planned to drive the other vehicles to Kansas City to find medical treatment there. That city hadn’t been damaged much in the wars and had a wide array of services.

The men also took the slavers’ computers and phones with them. The tech was new and would’ve brought in high prices at a market, but the men agreed that turning the tech over to the police was the best thing to do. The electronics might give the authorities information to help catch the remaining slavers.

Sometimes revenge trumped money.

Once the packing was done, Charity’s family drove off. Callum and Milo headed the caravan in a large white truck with a closed bed. Callum said he knew how to drive, and Milo was in no state to. He sat in the passenger side with his rifle visible to discourage any raiders who might be on the road.

Zia followed them in a smaller maroon truck. Charity drove the Jeep with a trailer now stuffed with crates, including one with three dozen chickens.

Perhaps it was for the best that she was alone so no one was there to criticize her driving. She’d been functioning well enough while they packed up, going on auto-pilot to complete the task. Now she gripped the wheel too tight and kept forgetting that if she didn’t ease the gas pedal just right, the Jeep would sputter or lurch forward. Her limbs no longer shook but felt like they still were. She couldn’t get enough air, despite her deep breaths.

Her brain kept invoking horrible scenarios, kept imagining how events might have played out if not for those matches. Where would she be at this moment? Would the oily slaver be making good on his threats to get acquainted with her tongue?

The men wouldn’t have waited long to tighten one of the collars around her neck. When would her family have realized that the three of them weren’t coming home? Her parents would’ve tried to save them, and that would put her family in even more danger.

She didn’t feel guilty for killing the slavers, but the man who’d dropped the gas container—had he been an innocent captive? Maybe he’d been a good man with a family? Was his blood on their hands?

While she’d loaded up the trucks, Charity had asked Milo about him.

“He was a slaver,” Milo said loudly and firmly, a warning to everyone else not to contradict him. “You don’t need to regret killing him. It was self-defense.”

Might have been. But Milo wouldn’t have had to speak so loudly if he’d been sure of that truth.

The trip home seemed to take forever. When the group finally pulled into the farm compound in their parade of vehicles, Charity’s parents came out of their bunkhouse to meet them. They’d been waiting there instead of working in the fields with the rest of the harvesters.

It seemed strange somehow that they both looked the same as they had this morning—her father’s sure stride and the brown hair peeking out of his favorite cowboy hat. Her mother’s blonde hair was still in the same ponytail she’d had at breakfast.

Milo’s truck came to a halt just short of the bunkhouses. He climbed out and marched over to their parents. If the extra vehicles hadn’t already made it clear that this hadn’t been a normal trip, the blood soaking through his bandage did. Charity was glad he reached them first so he could be the one to tell them what had happened. She didn’t want to relive the details.

Her parents huddled around Milo in concern. Callum got out of the truck, and without any sort of introduction, Milo sent him up the walkway that led to the farmer’s house.

Zia parked behind the white truck and joined the group. Her posture was stiff and angry. Charity pulled behind the trucks. She opened the trailer to give the chickens some fresh air and then trekked over to join everyone else.

Over the last year, when Charity considered her father’s prediction about the matches, she’d wondered if her mother would say the words, “Thank heavens for whatever forces turned your father into a psychic so you had that book of matches to protect you,” in a forced way, like an actress reading a script. She must have the phrase memorized. Charity did.

But nothing about her mother’s response seemed forced. As Charity walked up, her mother flung her arms around her, shuddering with emotion. Her voice choked, and the sentence came from her mouth like a prayer. She said the words over and over, nearly sobbing them into Charity’s shoulder.

Charity hugged her mother for a few moments, then let her go. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” She wasn’t okay. The prediction had been accurate, and yet at the same time, it hadn’t been. “I didn’t throw the matches. Zia did. She’s the one who saved us.”

Charity’s mom wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter who threw them. You had them, and you’re all safe.”

It mattered to Charity. “Why didn’t Dad tell Zia to carry the matches?”

“Maybe,” Zia said tightly, “your parents didn’t trust me with the important job of matchbook carrier.” Her eyes flashed, nostrils flaring. She’d been offended that no one had told her the truth about the family until after she’d been married to Milo for six months, and apparently, they were all going to discuss that subject now.

“Or maybe,” Zia added, “they’re just happiest that Charity is safe, so the vision didn’t mention Milo or me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Charity said. Zia knew how much her parents loved the two of them. She didn’t usually talk this way to anyone, let alone her in-laws.

Charity’s father glanced around to make sure no one had come back from the fields and was within earshot. “I don’t know why the visions come as they do or even what they mean sometimes.” One of his best qualities was the ability to remain unoffended when others were upset. He gave Zia a gentle, pleading look. “We’d be devastated if we lost any of you.”

Zia took quick, unplacated breaths. “Did you know what would happen to us today? Did you send us there knowing slavers would capture us?”

Charity’s father lifted his hands in an appeasing gesture. “The vision didn’t give me those details. And I’m glad it didn’t. I don’t know if I could’ve sent you if I’d known what you would go through.”

Um, Charity would hope that no, he absolutely couldn’t have sent them.

Zia pursed her lips. “You told us to pick up something else. You said we’d know it when we saw it.” She waved her hand in the direction Callum had gone. “You obviously knew something out of the ordinary would happen.”

Charity’s gaze cut to Milo. Usually, he was their father’s biggest supporter, but he was scowling, nearly as upset as Zia.

“I knew something would happen,” her father admitted, “but not what. I didn’t know what you’d bring home. I had a premonition today would be important and hard, but no vision to tell me why.”

Milo grunted, unsatisfied by the explanation. “So you knew you were sending us into danger, and you did it anyway.”

The thought was like a gut punch. Charity opened her mouth to agree with Milo, then snapped it shut. Her father had always said the visions showed the way to keep them safe. If he hadn’t sent them—even to that horrible situation—they had no way of knowing whether something worse would’ve happened. What if they hadn’t gone to the market and those same slavers—undiminished in manpower and rifles—had attacked the harvesters while they traveled to the next farm?

Her father rubbed his jaw, choosing his words carefully. “I knew we would benefit from whatever occurred today.” He held his hands out, gesturing to the trucks laden with supplies. “We have.”

A flush of anger reddened Milo’s cheeks. “And the fact that my wife and your daughter could have been beaten and violated didn’t matter to you?” He jabbed his finger into the air, emphasizing his point. “Your vision about the matches only said they would save Charity’s life. We weren’t even mentioned. Anything could’ve happened to us. And a whole lot could’ve happened to Charity before the matches became useful.”

Their mother’s jaw dropped at the accusation. “Of course your safety matters to us. How could you say such a thing?”

Their father reached out to put his hand on Milo’s shoulder, then thought better and let his hand fall back at his side. “Every day, we’re in danger. As long as the raiders and slavers roam around, as long as the government eliminates anyone they deem a threat, we’re all in danger. That’s why we’re working so hard, gathering resources and people—so one day we can live in a safe place.”

Their father could come up with a rousing motivational speech at the drop of the hat. It was the reason people who’d only known him for a short time willingly changed their plans, flaunted laws about crossing into the breakaway states, and headed off to his settlement to help build it into a great city.

Charity already knew all this. So did Milo. They’d told people the same thing. Milo hardly seemed to hear the words now. He simply stared at his injured hand, gritting his teeth.

“You helped quite a lot of people,” their father pointed out. “If I had asked the three of you to go on a mission to free captives from slavers today, would you have done it?”

A vein pulsed in Milo’s neck. “Not with my wife and sister in tow.”

Zia sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “I guess I would’ve done it.”

Charity didn’t answer. Now that the ordeal was over—sure, yes, she could say everything they’d gone through had been worth it to free captives, diminish the slavers’ power, and bring back the wealth they had. But if her father asked her tomorrow to take on more slavers, she’d have a different response for him.

Milo looked firmly at Zia. “Don’t give him ideas. You’re not going anywhere near slavers again. Ever.”

Zia’s eyebrows went up in challenge. “That almost sounds like you’re ordering me around. I make my own decisions.”

“Not when danger is involved,” Milo said. “Then I have a say.”

Zia planted a hand on her hip. “You can have an opinion, but not a vote.”

“I definitely have a vote,” Milo countered. “And I have veto power too.”

“That’s not how marriage works,” Zia said, and the two stared at each other, neither budging.

Their father gestured to the trucks in an attempt to change the subject. “I’m sure the slavers’ things will fetch a good price, and we’ll have two trucks to sell next time we go to market.”

“You’ll have one truck,” Milo said, bringing his attention back to their parents. “The other belongs to me.” He lifted his bloody hand, offering it as proof. “I earned at least that much out of this deal.”

Their mother blinked in surprise. “Milo, you know we’re here to earn money for the settlement.”

Milo dipped his chin. “Yeah, well, no one at the settlement got their hand blasted today, so the truck is mine. I’ll be in my crappy excuse for a house waiting for the doctor.” He stormed off toward the row of bunkhouses.

He was right about the living arrangements. The farmers never put a lot of money into the workers’ houses. Usually, they were little more than sheds with electricity. Some didn’t even have running water, and the group always had to share a communal kitchen and bathrooms.

Zia said, “I’m going to make sure they’ve called a doctor.” She headed to the farmhouse without another word.

Charity’s mother watched Milo go, biting her lip. “I’ll talk to him.”

Her father put his hand out to stop her. “He’s got a right to be upset. He went through something that will stick with him for the rest of his life. They all did. Let him have some time. And the truck. If he decides to sell it and give the proceeds to building New Salem, it will be because his conscience told him to, not because we did.”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “I’m still going to sit with him until the doctor comes. He needs me there while he’s hurt.” It was more likely she couldn’t bear to be apart from him while he was injured. Zia wasn’t completely unfounded in her complaints against her in-laws. Charity’s mother had a hard time letting Milo be a husband instead of a son.

Charity’s father turned his attention to her with such sad eyes she could hardly bear the sight of them. “What about you? Do you think some of the supplies should be yours?”

Her mind flashed back to the market. As they’d left, she’d seen a man straddling one of the downed slavers with a pair of pliers—the one with the golden tooth. The captive had been yanking at the dead man’s mouth, shouting, “This is mine! I called it!”

She shook her head. She didn’t want something that would remind her of this day. The hollow feeling in her chest was reminder enough. “I didn’t do anything to deserve an extra portion.” Her gaze dropped to the ground, and her words tumbled out. “I was too afraid to throw the matches. I worried an explosion might kill us, or the guard would shoot us, and I didn’t know whether I should sacrifice a possibly innocent man in a bid for our freedom.

“So I stood there like an idiot, and Zia had to be the one who saved us. I messed up the prediction.” Charity’s voice caught in her throat. It felt as dry and tight as old corn husks. “I could’ve ruined everything and gotten us all killed. Why didn’t the prediction tell Zia to carry the matches?” The last words came out hitched with a sob.

Her father put his arm around her and gathered her into a hug. “You were cautious. There’s no shame in that.”

He was wrong. There was plenty of shame. Charity would carry the guilt with her for the rest of her life. In the critical moment, she’d been afraid to act.

Her father stepped away from her and glanced around again. He didn’t usually speak about his abilities, let alone do it out in the open where someone might walk up. He said if the family talked about his visions, they’d grow casual and slip up.

“What would’ve happened,” her father asked, “if Zia had carried matches? How would that have changed the outcome?”

Charity sniffed, trying to regain her composure. “The slaver searched Zia first. He would’ve taken the matches away from her. He only put them in my shirt pocket because he was still searching me.” The thought made her feel a little better. Charity had needed to be the one who carried them. “But I still should’ve thrown them. I just stood there, frozen.”

“We all make mistakes. The important thing is to grow from them.”

Some parents would have criticized her for her failure to act, especially since her brother and sister-in-law’s lives were on the line. Milo would be lecturing her about it before the day was out. Extensively. But her father didn’t.

Charity’s gaze went to the bunkhouse. “I hope Milo and Zia won’t be fighting for long.” She’d never seen them argue, and they’d parted so coldly.

“Marriage is like that sometimes. You’ll find out all about that one day. Probably sooner than I’d like.”

They began walking toward the farmhouse. “I hope my husband is patient,” she said. She hoped for many things from him. She’d built up a list of qualities that grew every year she waited for his arrival.

“He has a kind smile,” her father said.

Her father knew this because when she was fifteen, he’d seen her husband in a vision. A tall man with brown hair, tanned skin, and dark eyes. According to her father, he was pleasant looking. Getting more of a description from her father than that was difficult, although Charity had tried.

So she’d created her own picture: a gentle, soft-spoken man who was honest and unfailingly loyal to her. He’d be hardworking, unassuming, and an avid reader. A combination of Atticus Finch, George Bailey, and Petrarch as he wrote love poems to Laura.

“I’m sure he’ll be someone worthy of you,” her father said. “Whenever he joins our group.”

Whenever had already taken too long. Charity was more than tired of waiting.