Tre rolled onto his knees, managed to avoid using his right hand, and tried to rise. A wave of dizziness overcame him. “So you have a boo-boo,” Sir said sarcastically. “Big deal. Stand up.”
Tre tried again, made it to his feet, and swayed uncertainly. Then he spotted the pile of picks and lurched over to it. It took all his powers of concentration to select a tool and pick it up. From there it was a long walk to the edge of the pit and a slot between Knife and a slave named Will. “It’s good to have you back,” Knife said. “What happened to your hand?”
Tre took a clumsy swing with his left hand. The pick made contact but had little effect. “They cut my little finger off.”
Will said, “My God, why?“
“They wanted to know about Crow.”
“Did you tell them?”
Tre remembered the man named Ellis. Was Will a spy too? There was no way to know, so he answered accordingly. “No, I don’t know anything, so how could I?” Will nodded and returned to work.
Tre did his best. And the knowledge that the pit boss was constantly scanning the area looking for people to cull helped to motivate him. But his hand ached and Tre was worried about the possibility of infection, so he didn’t want to let it get dirty. That made the work more difficult. So he was grateful when the klaxon sounded.
The basket of artifacts felt unusually heavy as Tre carried it up the road to the surface. Once that chore was accomplished and Tre had his plate, Knife took care of loading it up. Then they went off to sit with their backs to a cyclone fence. It was difficult to eat left-handed but Tre managed to do so. And much to his surprise, he was hungry. Once they were finished, Knife pulled a rusty can out of a pocket. “I have something for you.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
Knife’s reading skills were limited, but he could puzzle out words. He pointed to the label. Tre saw the letters “T-U-R-P-E-N-T.” The rest was illegible. “Turpentine? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Pour it on the bandage. Let it soak into the wound. That’s what Bones does. It kills the bugs. The ones that are too small to see.”
“The bacteria,” Tre said.
“Yeah. The bacteria.”
Tre was unaware of turpentine’s antiseptic properties but knew an infection could kill him. And the garbage mine was bound to be lousy with every type of bug known to man. So he nodded. “Pour it on.”
Knife had trouble getting the cap off. Once it came loose, he looked Tre in the eye. “This is going to hurt.”
“A lot?”
“As much as losing the finger.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Tre said as he braced himself. “Do it.”
Knife poured a generous dollop of the strong-smelling brew onto the dressing—and Tre uttered a barely muffled scream. Those seated close enough to hear looked but weren’t surprised. Rough-and-ready medical treatments were the only kind they had access to. It took the better part of five minutes for Tre to recover from the burning pain. Once he did, Knife was all business. “Do you know what day this is?”
Tre’s mind was on other things. He shook his head. “Today is the day before the attack,” Knife told him. “Tomorrow night. That’s when the gang will attack.”
Tre knew Knife was right and felt a sudden sense of concern. “So you think the other slaves will revolt?”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea,” Knife replied. “But we have to assume that they will. So we’ll have to leave our trailer, make a lot of noise, and try to lead them. It’s asking a lot, but I’m going to need your help.”
Tre’s hand was throbbing, but he nodded. “I’ll do my best. And if the others follow, I know where to lead them.”
“Where?”
“Straight to Kimble. Once we capture or kill him, the rest of this operation will crumble.”
The next day seemed to crawl by. Tre worked as hard as he could on the theory that the pit boss was watching from above. His hand continued to ache, but not as badly as before, and there were no signs of infection.
Finally, for what Tre hoped would be the last time, he entered the usual trailer. Knife had taken charge of the next phase, and Tre was happy to let him do so. Neither one of them had a watch, so they couldn’t be sure when the attack would come. All they could do was lie in their bunks and wait for the mortar bombardment to begin. But what if it didn’t begin? What if something prevented the gang from attacking? What if Crow left them to rot? He wouldn’t do something like that, would he? The waiting was pure torture and seemed to last forever. Then Tre heard it—a muffled explosion. The attack was under way!
“That’s it!” Tre shouted as he rolled out of his bunk. “The Crow is here! He’s going to free us! Follow me.”
Knife uttered a war cry as his boots hit the floor, and Tre opened the door. Cool night air flooded into the trailer as Tre made his way down the wooden stairs to the concrete below. The tower-mounted searchlights were on, and blobs of light began to roam the compound as a much-amplified voice boomed over the speakers. “Stay in your trailers! I repeat, stay in your—” The order was cut off when one of the watchtowers took a direct hit. There was a boom followed by a series of cracking sounds. Then the top half of the tower broke free of the rest and fell. It landed with a crash. Tre grinned. Smoke had been watching the compound for weeks, so whoever had been assigned to the mortars knew what to aim for.
But that thought was washed out of Tre’s mind as he heard a chorus of bloodcurdling howls and a pack of dogs surged out of the shadows. It was a threat he had neglected to think about, to prepare for, and now they were in trouble. Or so it seemed.
But Knife hadn’t forgotten. Slivers of salvaged steel appeared in both hands, flew through the air, and found targets. Two of the animals tumbled head over heels and fell dead as more missiles sought flesh. Tre heard a series of yelps as they hit and more dogs went down. The whole thing took place with such rapidity that only one dog was able to complete the attack. It leapt up into the air and was flying toward Knife when he stepped to one side and made a motion with his right hand. The animal’s forward motion did all the work for him. The resulting laceration was two inches deep and a foot long.
The beast hit the ground, rolled, and came to its feet. Blood ran freely as it crept forward and produced a throaty growl. Lips were pulled back to reveal rows of white teeth, but Knife was ready. “Here, doggy, “ he said, as he brandished a knife. “Come to Poppa.”
But before the dog could obey, Tre brought a three-foot-long section of rebar down on the animal’s head. The plan was to use it on techies, but the dog was a good target too. The impact produced a sickening thud. The animal collapsed. “Nice job,” Knife said as a mortar round blew out a section of fence.
“Crow!” a slave yelled. “The Crow is here!”
Tre heard the cry and knew it was time to act. So he shouted, “Let’s get Kimble!”
A dozen voices took up the cry, and as Tre began to run, others followed. Techies appeared up ahead and fired. Tre felt something nip his left arm and heard someone scream. Then he was there, striking at a guard with the steel rod and hitting the man’s head.
“Their weapons!” Knife shouted. “Take their weapons!”
Someone else had the dead techie’s rifle, so Tre took his pistol. “Gold!” Tre shouted. “Kimble has gold!”