The Fallen Continent: The Man of the Hour

This is the fourth installment in a short narrative sub-series for Fallen Continent. Click here to read the previous chapter, if you haven’t already.

Fort Peck, Montana. The Knights Templar (Fort Peck).

It had all happened so fast.

Before Sir Fulk’s body hit the mess hall floor, a great throng of Lakota Indians burst into the room. Brandishing machetes, submachine guns, and hunting rifles, they cowed the dazed Templars into submission before they could even process the death of their commander, much less take up arms in his memory.

Commander Bohemond spoke before an audience of captives, his brass voice echoing off the barren brick walls.

“Gentlemen!” he began, “I regret to put you all in so much distress, but I really had no other choice. Sir Fulk is dead. He is the agent of a wicked plot by Grand Master Baldwin to deliver us into the hands of the Bozeman government. The cement trucks he brought to Fort Peck were, in fact, carrying munitions. Also implicated in the plot are the U.S. Army Engineers, ever loyal to their masters in Bozeman and bent on our destruction. The leaders of the engineer plot have been liquidated. The penitent will await my judgement, when I will determine whether or not they can be redeemed. I suspect most will. Do not worry—your lot will fare much better. I understand your surprise, as most of you were unaware of this scheme. It was only the brave Sir Hugh who delivered the startling news to me just in time for me to formulate a response. As the true Grand Master of the Knights Templar, I will take up arms against Baldwin and his minions in defense of our order and our way of life. Those of you who will fight alongside me, stand up now, and I will forgive you.”

A few dozen men, about a third of the company, rose and joined Bohemond’s host. The rest were borne away by the Indians into Fort Pecks’ jailhouse. And so it came to pass, that Joe Hopkins found himself languishing in a concrete cell. In his infinite mercy, Bohemond gave the detractors three days to change their minds and swear their allegiance, before he would hang them and march west for Havre.

Joe knew he would never bend the knee. They could draw and quarter him if they liked, but he would endure it. He had finally found something worth believing in, and he was not going to throw it away for a despot who promised a greater share of loot after each sacking.

The jailhouse door creaked open. Two silhouetted figures, outlined by a dim incandescent light, crept through the door. Joe identified husky, hunching form of the leading silhouette as the jailer. He must have returned for another round of taunts and threats, except he brought a woman with him. She giggled and tickled his chin as he pulled her tight for a kiss. The lady acquiesced with a peck on the cheek. The jailor loosed a hearty chuckle and went in for more. His face met hers, then immediately jerked back as he grunted in pain. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, the woman pulled a knife out of her stocking and drove it into his neck. The jailer crumpled to the ground and expired with a desperate whimper. The woman stowed her knife away and retrieved the keyring from his corpse.

She scampered towards Joe’s cell, the first on the block, and tried one of the keys. It refused to budge, and as she cycled through the entire ring, Joe and his cellmates—the same who dined with him the evening before—drew near. Joe gasped with apprehension when he got close enough to make out her features.

“Anna!” he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down.

“Thank God I found you,” she answered. “I heard about Fulk, and everything. I knew I had to help.”

“They didn’t detain you at the checkpoint?”

“I bribed my way here, all the way from Glasgow. One more obstacle, and I’d have to either give away the truck or…”

Joe’s face went white. “Don’t do that for my sake. I’m not worth that much.”

“You are to me. And probably to all the other Templars. I hate that creep Bohemond as much as anyone else.” She finally landed on the right key and sprang the door open. Joe and his comrades exited the cell.

“And the other cells?” he asked.

“No time to wait on them.” She tossed the key ring through the bars of the adjacent cell. “Get out of here, and pass it to the others. Try to follow us north.” The squire prisoner nodded and put himself to work as Joe and his friends made their escape.

Their egress from Fort Peck was easier than they had anticipated. Bohemond’s putschists had descended into riotous revelry, in anticipation of their glorious march on Havre. The only soldier who noticed the Templars crawling into the cab of Anna’s pickup truck was an Assiniboine Indian who held out an upturned palm. Anna greased it with a handful of Williston monopoly money—the closest thing the Badlands had to a de facto currency—and the tribal warrior let them escape in silence.

By cover of darkness the band fled north to St. Marie, the site of the old Air Force Base and a handful of seasonally-inhabited dwellings for cattle rangers and itinerant workers. Compared to other, rustic ghost towns that dotted the American West, St. Marie had a unique, atomic-age feel. It had once served as the headquarters of the Posse Comitatus, a far-right Christian Identity militia that attempted to make a stand in northeast Montana before migrating west into the more accommodating Northwest American Republic. They had rejuvenated the dying settlement into a warlord fortress, complete with palisades, watchtowers, and arms workshops where lesser men toiled against their will for the benefit of God’s Chosen People, the American Anglo-Saxons.

Their presence in St. Marie, however brief, was the only reason the site still remained on the map, as the Army Engineers took an interest in the facility after the white nationalists left it vacant. The Posse only left behind a handful of stragglers and their unfortunate slaves, who the G.I.s liberated without much difficulty. After carrying off the working machinery and scrapping the rest, they established a permanent outpost in St. Marie. Though small, it served a crucial purpose as the Fort Peck Administration’s northernmost installation, always the first to sound the alarm if any trouble in Canada might find its way south.

No Army Engineers greeted Joe or his friends upon their arrival in St. Marie. The miniscule permanent garrison had been withdrawn south. Joe wondered if Bohemond had treated them with the same magnanimity he himself had received.

Whatever their fate, they left little behind. They missed a few things: a few boxes of pemmican bars, a crate of .22LR ammunition that Joe’s band couldn’t use and wouldn’t want even if they could fire it. All that St. Marie had to offer was the shelter of its decaying buildings and its geography, far removed from the vengeful wrath of Commander Bohemond.

While Joe’s friends warmed themselves beside a freshly-built fire, a small trickle of escapees rendezvoused with them. About thirty Templars coasted into St. Marie, their cars running on fumes. They had no food, no weapons, and no ideas on how to proceed. They gathered in a circle around the fire, feasting on the pemmican bars recovered from the exhausted storehouse.

“We should pool all our gas for one car,” Melisende suggested. “We could send a messenger ahead to warn the Grand Master about Bohemond.”

“And what, starve here?” Melchior complained, sitting crisscrossed with a sour face.

“There’s no way he could even get to Havre before Bohemond reaches Malta,” Julian assessed. “And the Templars are scattered all over the state, so they won’t be able to concentrate in time to stop Bohemond’s takeover.”

Joe rose to his feet. “There is a way,” he declared. “We fix Bohemond in place, long enough to get a messenger back to Malta.”

The Templars murmured in confusion. How could this handful of stragglers possibly delay the advance of the powerful Prince of Fort Benton?

“There’s only one thing that terrifies Bohemond,” Joe explained. “Canadians. It’s why he hated the Fort Peck assignment, why he nearly started a war over the Alberta debacle.”

“The hell’s so terrifying about a bunch of fuckin’ canucks?” quipped Melchior.

“He hates Canadians at large, but he’s only truly scared of the Manlist,” said Joe. At once everyone understood. Grim stories travelled south along the plains of Commander Macklin’s conquests. No city he ever laid eyes upon had ever resisted his fury, and everyone knew what he did to the settlements that refused to surrender. “If we convince him that Macklin’s coming, he’ll either hunker down at Fort Peck and prepare for the onslaught, or flee into the Badlands until it’s safe.”

“Who, then, will do the convincing?” asked Julian, his arms crossed.

One of the Army Engineers raised his hand. He was dressed in tattered fatigues, more rag than clothing, and the left lens of his glasses was broken. “I can get you something better. I know some guys in this area, Badlands bandits. Don’t ask me how,” he added, after a few suspicious glares were shot in his direction. “If we round up enough guys, we can convince Bohemond we’re the Manlist vanguard, come to offer him terms of surrender.”

The ragged engineer’s proposal had piqued Joe’s interest. “Where can we find these bandits?”

“They’re the Army of the Dead. Last I heard from them, they were in Scobey.” The few people who knew where that was raised their objections.

“That could be days away!”

“Don’t worry, they’re heading out of there. Actually, they’re were going to Glasgow to stock up on food and gas and try their luck down south. It’s too rough in the border counties these days—which plays to our advantage, because it’s the Manlist making things rough there.”

“Then we’ll meet them there,” Joe decreed. “Mel, take a bike and ride for Malta. Send word to the Lord Commander. The rest of us are going south.”

They found them encamped on the hills north of Glasgow. Staring warily at the emptied fortress below, the thirty-odd fighters and bikers were trying to make sense of the apparently evacuated defenses. They leaped in surprise when Joe and the Templars rode in.

Joe and the gang immediately found themselves at the mercy of the raiders, who levelled their guns and crossbows at the paltry band. The poorest of them had no ranged weapons, but brandished machetes. The leader, a leather-clad biker with a filthy blond mullet and ostentatious shoulder pads, was one of the last few souls in America who still looked the part of the old, free-roaming wasteland warrior. When Joe’s parents were children, they expected everyone would look like this man after the apocalypse. He flipped his mangy hair and squinted in the moonlight. His look of apprehension melted into surprise.

“Danny? The fuck are you doing out here?”

Danny, evidently the escaped Army Engineer, met the wastelander in a quick embrace. “We need your help, Rex. This Templar guy in Fort Peck, Bohemond, he’s purged all the Engineers. He’s trying to take over the Templars and then the entire wasteland. The lights are out in Glasgow tonight because he’s pulling out his troops to march on Malta tomorrow morning. But our buddy Joe here’s got a plan to stall him until we can get help from the rest of the Templars.”

Rex held up his hands in protest. “Woah, woah, woah, hold up. You ditch us, join the fuckin’ feds, and now you’re asking us for help? What happened to honor among thieves?”

“This is the honor. I got out quietly when that sick bastard Riker got his throat slit by that one bitch. I could have killed you for trying to take over, but I kept my mouth shut. I sold you bullets and pemmican from the Glasgow commissary. Now it’s time you do something for the feds that have kept you alive the past year.”

Rex scowled. “We don’t have much to offer you. Most of us are gone, either died or left after Riker bit the dust. We’re just the dregs.”

“I’m not asking for much,” Danny pleaded. “Help us pull off this ruse, and then you can ride off into the wasteland and forget we ever asked.”

One of the raiders spoke in Rex’s ear. “He’s right, boss. And the blackout thing? We didn’t even ask him about that.”

Joe stepped forward and looked Rex in the eye. “If we make it through this, I’ll put in my word with the Grand Master. I’m sure he’ll reward you handsomely for services rendered to the order.”

Rex’s hard expression softened, albeit with a tinge of exasperation. “What do you have in mind?”

Danny grinned. “Do you still have that flag, the trophy we scored at Big Beaver?”

Roused from a comfortable slumber in his quarters at the Fort Peck Hotel, Commander Bohemond greeted the morning sun. He had flawlessly seized control of the largest Templar host outside Havre. In a day’s time, they would embark on the journey to Malta. Once the eastern stronghold fell, he would progress to the Templar capital and enthrone himself as the undisputed Grand Master. Baldwin’s host outnumbered his, it was true, but he had the Indians on his side, along with a handful of mercenary odds and ends he had spent the last few weeks collecting. A raider gang here, a vigilante posse there, together his force outnumbered the rest of the Templar order. They were an unruly bunch, as the night of unceasing, debaucherous revelry had demonstrated, but the promise of fame and plunder was enough to keep them in line. All he had left to do was give the order to march, and Montana would be his.

Irresponsible though it was, Bohemond congratulated himself with a morning glass of brandy. Coating his throat with liquid fire was his favorite way to start the day. It had scarcely settled in his stomach when he heard the blare of a military trumpet sounding to the north. Perhaps it was the morning roll call, he assured himself, but the racket persisted. By the time he finished dressing himself, an orderly came knocking on his bedroom door.

“Riders from the north, Lord Commander! They come under a flag of truce. They ask to parlay with you personally.”

“How many are there?” asked Bohemond, his jovial spirits giving way to groggy irritation.

“About forty, sir,” the orderly replied.

“Then tell them to fuck off,” croaked Bohemond.

“They’re flying Macklin’s colors, sir,” the aide nervously added.

The Commander’s face went white.

Within minutes, his driver spirited him to the northern palisade, beyond which stood the approaching party. Bohemond marched up the wooden steps and gazed north from the battlements. Sure enough, the riders were holding two flags. The first was a white flag of truce, oddly shaped and possibly fashioned from an undershirt. The second flag, though frayed and sun-beaten, was the unmistakable banner of Roland Macklin’s Manlist: a St. George’s Cross on a white field, a red and white checkerboard of maple leaves at its center, and a green canton bearing the crossed rifle, axe, and maple leaf.

“Lord Bohemond!” brayed a hoarse voice from atop a motorcycle. “The Manlist marches south. We ride in its van. In his great mercy, the Old Man has sent us to parlay, that the city of Fort Peck and the brave souls who inhabit it might be spared. I urge you to consider our offer carefully. We will not extend another one.”

A mile to the south, Joe crept in the shadows cast by the foothills standing between Fort Peck and the Missouri River. Snaking lanes of trees and shrubs masked his advance as he drew near the southern gate. Skulking alongside him were the Templars Julian and Melchior, along with Anna and the engineer Danny. Each of them carried crossbows over their shoulders, traded by the Army of the Dead for their firearms. The rest of the company was north with the raiders, stalling for time.

“This wasn’t in the plan!” Melchoir complained, in a sharp whining whisper that grated the ears.

“The plan’s changed,” said Joe. “If Rex does his job up north, then we can do a hell of a lot more than just stall Bohemond down here.”

Danny led them through the brush up to a narrow, snaking creek whose course led under a small bridge into the cove on the other side. The palisade broke at the bridge, bifurcated by a small toll house on the Yellowstone Road. The palisade continued on the other side of the bridge, following the Yellowstone Road all the way to the power plant. By crawling under the bridge, this small creek afforded Joe and company passage into the fort without firing a shot in anger. Following Danny’s lead, the gang entered the base in this fashion, slithering through the muck and slime on their bellies. The underdefended gatehouse raised no alarm at their entry.

Their crouching shuffle waxed to a sprint as they crossed the open yard, making for the fort’s vulnerable facilities. Dawn was yielding to daylight, but the commotion at the northern gate had drawn enough attention away for the Templars to infiltrate unmolested. Their quest took them to the armory, which was serendipitously left unguarded. “I can kick this down,” Joe assessed after testing the lock. The Templars had trained him how. He wound up for a mighty kick, only to get blocked by Danny.

“Easy, Joe! This ain’t the Navy SEALs. Watch me.” With a rake pick and a torsion wrench, he wrested the door open far quicker and more quietly than Joe’s boots could manage. Joe expected neat rows of pristine weapons, carefully arranged on racks. What he found was a sprawling pile of munitions, haphazardly thrown in towering columns of boxes and crates. Nothing seemed to match or follow any kind of organized pattern, and much of the inventory had been recently pilfered by Bohemond’s men. This was a hoarder’s armory, an arsenal for packrats.

Melchior inhaled a lungful of dust and sneezed. “The fuck is Bohemond’s problem? Look at this dump!”

“All the raiders must have combed through this place, dumped their surplus,” said Julian.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re blowing it all sky-high anyway,” said Joe.

The chatter caught the attention of a Lakota mercenary at the back of the room, who threw down the magazine he was reading and called out to the intruders. “Hey! What are you doing in—”

Danny fired a crossbow bolt into his chest. The guard doubled up, pitched, and fell before he had time to react.

“No time to waste guys,” said Joe, brushing past the encounter. “Danny, get a wire on these explosives. Anna, the jailhouse.” Danny tossed his lockpick and wrench to Anna, who caught it with ease. “Mel, Julian, find some guns and get them to Anna and the escapees. When this goes off, we spring out of here and make for the hotel. With some luck, we can take Bohemond out or capture him alive.”

Anna hurried out the door, while Julian and Melchior poured through the dusty crates in search of usable weapons. Joe crawled past a precarious pyramid of barrels, reaching for a crate of explosives behind them. He levered the crate open with a machete, stumbling backward into the barrels and sending them crashing down to earth.

“If that Injun has any friends, they all know we’re here now,” Julian grumbled.

Joe emerged from the pile, his face and hands blackened from the gunpowder that had spilled out of the barrels. “This is the fuckin’ Guy Fawkes arsenal!” he exclaimed, coughing and dusting his hands on his pants.

“These guys still use black powder, holy shit!” Melchior exclaimed.

“And look at us, we got crossbows and machetes,” Julian countered. “You make do in the wasteland.”

Sure enough, the noise attracted unwanted attention. Two more mercenaries—Badlands raiders with white skin and plain clothes—scampered out of a back room, brandishing bowie knives and crying bloody murder. Joe pounced on one with his machete, lodging it deep in the raider’s shoulder. He grappled with the second, fighting desperately to keep the knife from plunging into his heart. Only a bolt from Danny’s crossbow saved him, flying through the raider’s temple and sticking in his skull. The first raider tried to dislodge Joe’s machete and wield it himself, but was too dazed and disoriented to notice the Templars gathering around him. Julian raised his crossbow and summarily executed him, piercing his heart with its bolt.

Having dispatched the last of the guards, the Templars carried out their mission. Danny fixed a long fuse to the pile of gunpowder that now lay on the floor. The Indian’s blood flowed from his wound and mixed with it, prompting the Templars to pour out a little more where the floor was still dry. Joe and Danny led the wire out of the armory, while Julian and Melchior seized as many rifles as their arms could carry. Hugging a great fasces of weapons like a modern Arnold Winkelried, they left the building to meet with Anna and whatever prisoners she might have freed.

Joe spooled out more wire, trailing it all the way to the creek where they now hid. Danny lit the fuse, and they watched with bated breath as the flame crept up the wire and towards the arsenal. They braced themselves for the explosion, when they saw a throng of Templars crowd around the hotel. Sir Hugh stood among them, barking out orders and crowding the men into wagons.

“They have us cut off!” Joe exclaimed in a harsh whisper.

“If that powder goes off now, we’re screwed,” said Danny. “We’ll never get past all them with two crossbows.”

“Stay here,” Joe commanded. “I’ll snuff the fuse. We wait for them to leave, and then I’ll light it again.”

Dan nodded and crouched down. Joe leapt over the muddy parapet and ran back into the armory, where the fuse had nearly reached its volatile destination. He stamped the flame out with his boot, moments before it had a chance to ignite. Leaning in the doorway, he watched and waited as the putschists dawdled about the hotel. Bohemond’s SUV pulled up in front of the wagons, dropping off the big man himself. He spoke harsh words to Sir Hugh, who cringed, weasel-like, and ushered him inside. The hotel door slammed behind him, and Hugh commandeered the vehicle and led the wagon-borne host with him to the northern gates. The company departed, and Joe spied an upraised thumb jut out from behind the creek’s steep bank. He darted back inside and returned to his work.

There was hardly any fuse let to light, so he instead took one of the unbroken gunpowder barrels and removed the cork that fastened it shut. Holding the barrel over his shoulder, he poured the black powder on the ground, trailing it behind him as would a cartoon character, laying an absurd trap for his unwitting enemy. The grainy line followed him back to the creek, where Danny was still waiting for him. He plucked a friction match from his matchbook and struck it against the sole of his boot. He muttered a prayer under his breath and dropped it on the terminus of the powder trail. The powder crackled and hissed as the volatile flames raced along the yard and into the armory. The Templars hunched over and covered their ears in anticipation of the explosion.

The moment came, heralded by a terrible, heaven-rending scream. For a glorious moment, two suns shone in the sky, one much brighter and nearer than its celestial cousin. The arsenal roof vanished, replaced by a great white cloud. Secondary explosions erupted in its wake, flinging white streaks of wrath across the fort whenever some hidden cache of weapons was discovered by the fire.

Moments later, a barrage of gunfire rang out from the north. First came a great volley, succeeded by the sustained crackle of battle. Unsuspecting Templars fled from their barracks and bivouacs, scrambling for their weapons and hoping that someone, somewhere knew what was going on. Many still staggered from the hangovers they won from the previous night. Before they had a chance to collect themselves, Anna and the liberated prisoners broke out of the jailhouse to make war on Bohemond’s host. The disoriented putschists were cut down by the vengeful bannermen of the late Sir Fulk, whose memory lived in their wild, hateful eyes. White sparks and black smoke flew from their guns with every bullet fired. Joe and Danny stayed in the trench, plinking off targets of opportunity with their crossbows. More rebels appeared, retreating from the northern wall and crying out for Bohemond to lead them. They were caught in the crossfire of the escapees and the Army of the Dead, who had blasted through the wall and pursued the mutinous Templars up to the hotel.

Amid the din of screams and gunfire and wreathed in acrid, greasy smoke, Bohemond’s mercenary horde disintegrated. The Indians deserted at once, throwing down their arms and seizing whatever horse or vehicle could bear them safely to Wolf Point. The lesser raiders slinked off in defeat and abandoned the putschists to their fate. Sir Hugh’s desperately tried to rally an organized defense, only to be betrayed by Fulk’s deserted bannermen, who now defected back to Joe’s side. They delivered him into the hands of Anna and the escapees. Joe at last emerged from the trench and took command of Fulk’s banner. Hugh fell at his knees, blubbering and pleading for mercy.

“Bohemond made me do it! He said he’d—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Joe spat. “You swore an oath, you held a sacred trust, and you betrayed it.”

He reached out to Rex, who put a pistol in his hand and sneered. Joe pulled back the slide and put the muzzle to Hugh’s forehead. There was a blinding flash, and the traitor’s whimpering ceased.

Although a determined few had taken up a defensive position in the hotel and had steeled themselves for a last stand, the battle was effectively over. The mercenaries deserted, the arsenal was destroyed, and the Templar rebels were dead or defected; Fort Peck had fallen. Against a force of hundreds, a handful of loyal Templars had prevailed. Rex approached with the white flag once more and waved it before the hotel. A window cracked open. A muzzle was perched on its sill. Joe cupped his hands and shouted at the gunman.

“Tell Bohemond it’s over! You’re surrounded, all your allies deserted. You’ve been had. Macklin ain’t coming. As far as I know, he’s still in Assiniboia. My name is Joe Hopkins. We are the bannermen of Sir Fulk. You are in rebellion against the Knights Templar and the rightful Grand Master, Lord Baldwin. Your dream of deposing him is finished. Surrender now, and we may convince him to spare your lives.”

The rebels gave no reply. The muzzle slowly withdrew from the window and disappeared. Agonizing minutes passed. Danny and Rex began to brainstorm a plan to assault the hotel—the latter wanted to burn it out. Then a single gunshot rang from the second story.

The front door cracked open. Through the crevice poked a white pillowcase, tied to an upraised rifle barrel. Joe bid them come out, and a dozen Templars, defeated and weary, crept out of the hotel and raised their hands above their head. The lead putschist slowly lowered his rifle to the ground and followed suit.

“Where’s Bohemond?” Joe inquired.

“On his bed,” the Templar replied. “He shot himself, rather than face capture.”

In the center of Fort Peck stood a generations-old monument, proud and solemn. Dedicated to the veterans of the United States army, its pentagonal column was ringed with trees and accompanied by three flags. To the left flew the flag of Montana, to the right the banner of American prisoners of war; in the middle stood stood the Stars and Stripes. Under Joe’s orders, the ancient emblem was lowered, and in its place was raised the banner of the Templars. The mall park, a great stretch of greenery, stood between the monument, the hotel, and the administration building at the heart of of the facility. Across this expanse were laid the bodies of the slain, both Bohemond’s and Joe’s troops. Bohemond himself was laid at the far end, close to the administration. Joe sat upon a bench beside the three flags and sighed.

“This’ll take a hell of a lot of cleaning up,” he lamented to the woman sitting next to him. “And a hell of a lot more explaining once Havre gets here.”

“Let’s hope you’ll get a knighthood out of it,” said Anna, laying a hand on his thigh.

“It would be nice. I dare say I don’t deserve it…” he said, looking to his fallen comrades that lay motionless on the mall.

“You do. You had nothing. Well, nothing but the help your friends gave you,” she added, leaning close to him. “But you took what you were given and rose to the challenge. You saved the Templars. Not just anyone could have done it.”

“I am just about anyone,” Joe huffed. “Really I was no one. The Templars made me into someone. It’s why I owe it to them to do what I did.” He drew a deep breath. His chest still ached from the encounter at the armory. “It’s hard to say why, but these guys are special. They’re different. Fuckin’ crazy, but they really mean what they say. Bohemond wasn’t like that. He was another one of them. You know, the they that you always complain about, that always looms over you and dictates your reality to you without asking. With the Templars, I had a choice. I signed up for everything they put me through. And for everything I endured, I got something out of it. If Bohemond had his way, the Templars would have just become another they. Am I making sense? Or am I—”

“Ssssh,” Anna hushed, putting a finger to his lips. “You make plenty of sense to me. Just don’t overthink it, Joe. You’re the man of the hour. Enjoy it.”

The girl leaned in close, and the Templar obliged her with a kiss. Short and perfunctory, a mere peck, but it restored in him a vigor that had been sapped by the day’s fighting. The tension that had been wound up in him dissipated. Turning his back to the mall, he faced the sunset with Anna and watched it with her.

Out of the distant haze came a black speck, which grew until Joe could see it blink red and green. It was an aircraft, an old Beechcraft Bonanza descending for an evening landing on the fort’s hardy little airstrip. The Templars cheered when they saw the familiar red cross on a black-and-white field printed on its fuselage.

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