Ficathon Response: Jeremiah: Broken

Well, here's my contribution to the ficathon and with a week or so to spare, too! Go me! *g* This is for Katie (Kaethe). Hope you like it.

Title: Broken
Author: Cyloran
Rating: PG (strong language)
Fandom: Jeremiah
CoC: Kurdy
Disclaimer: Not mine, dag nab it.
Words: 6,105

There was something about the little collection that spoke poignantly of the owner. Delicate colored glass blown and fashioned into whimsical shapes. A blue swan with a gracefully bent neck. A green turtle. A creamy white unicorn. A crystal clear cat. Fragile and yet strong, they were pieces of art that had miraculously survived 15 years of hell to find their way to this shelf in the relative safety of Thunder Mountain. And the woman who had owned them? Strong willed but delicate. Vulnerable but brightly optimistic. Like spun glass, now shattered.

Mister Smith gently picked up the unicorn and examined it. The figurine was perfect in every respect except for its tail which had been snapped off at the base. Beautiful yet flawed. Broken and irreparable. Like Elizabeth.

He had never met her nor ever would. She'd been killed shortly before he had arrived at the Mountain. But looking at the contents of the room around him and the denizens of this small shelf, Mister Smith knew she would have been kind to him. That she would have welcomed him in spite of his quirks and tried to set him at ease.

"Kurdy loved you very much," he told the unicorn, as if it were able to convey his words to the absent owner. "Loves you," he corrected himself.

His knapsack sat on the foot of the neatly made bed. He pulled a soft white cloth from the depths of the bag and used it to gently wrap the unicorn, padding it against harm before tucking it away inside. With a second cloth in hand, the size of a handkerchief, he returned to the shelf and picked up the little dog with the chipped nose.

"What the fuck are do you think you're doing?"

Mister Smith barely had time to pull his hand away from the collection before Kurdy was on top of him. A heavy fist struck Smith hard in the face, propelling him backward off his feet and across the bed. Somehow he managed to keep his grasp on the little dog, which fell without injury onto the mattress.

"Kurdy! I can expl--"

Powerful hands grasped Smith's collar and hauled him to his feet. Kurdy's face was nearly purple with rage as he slammed the smaller man against the wall hard enough to rattle everything in the room.

"What the FUCK are you doing?!" Kurdy shouted into Smith's face. He glanced angrily over his shoulder at the white cloth on the bed and the little dog peeking out. At the open knapsack, ready to receive it. "You were stealing?"

"Kurdy!" coughed Smith, his eyes pleading as the hands tightened on his collar. "It's not what it looks like!"

"Shut up. Shut the FUCK UP!" Rage and betrayal warred over his expression. "I trusted you, man! I trusted you with my life! I tried to be your friend! And this is what you do? You come in here and do this?!"

"No! I didn't! It's not—"

Kurdy didn't want to hear it. Right now he didn’t give a shit how many times Smith had saved his life. Nothing could excuse what he'd just seen. Smith had overstepped his bounds. He'd desecrated a memory. He'd walked into a place that even Kurdy was still struggling to deal with, the pain too fresh and raw. In that single agonizing moment, all of his anguish and loss and rage welled up inside and focused itself on a single outlet – Smith. He'd killed men for less! All he wanted right now was to throttle the man in his grasp until he turned blue. To punch Smith in his pleading, boyish face over and over and over again until it looked the way Kurdy felt inside. Bruised and bloodied and broken. Lost.

"Get out of my sight," Kurdy managed through clenched teeth. "Get out, before I break your fucking neck!" He dragged Smith away from the wall and threw the man away from himself, as if afraid of what his hands might do. His voice became dangerously quiet and intense. "I don't want to see your face. I don't want to hear your name. I just want you gone! Got that? Gone!"

"Kurdy! Kurdy, please --!"

"I don't fucking want to see you!" He snatched the glass dog from the bed as if afraid Smith would try to grab it on his way out. "Stay away from me, Smith, or I swear, I won't be responsible for what happens. And I don't ever – EVER – want you in this room again. You got that?"

Mister Smith nodded in sad and mute understanding. He picked up his knapsack, slipping the strap over his right shoulder. "Kurdy –"

"OUT!"

Mister Smith hung his head, his expression wretched, and left.

Kurdy's fingers closed reflexively around the little glass dog. Gentle in spite of his anger and the pain in his soul. The loss of Elizabeth. The betrayal of Smith.

How could he have misjudged someone so badly?

With a heavy sigh, he sat on the foot of the bed – their bed – and looked down at the glittering figurine in his hand. The glass dog's expression seemed sympathetic, as if sharing his grief. His dark eyes reluctantly moved to focus on the other glass animals resting on their shelf, hot tears misting his vision. Not so very long ago he'd tried to pack them away. To put that part of his life behind him. Not the memory of her. Just the constant reminders. Her perfume. A favorite necklace. The little tunes she would hum as she worked. The glass figurines that were her special vanity. The collection had started with her relationship with Simon. When Simon had been killed, Kurdy had taken up the quest. To find delicate, beautiful creatures of blown glass. Fragile and yet strong enough to have survived the hell of the world. Symbols of Elizabeth herself, in a way.

Here in this room, with those hollow glass eyes looking back at him and the smell of her perfume still lingering in the air, Kurdy almost felt as if he could reach out and touch her. That if he closed his eyes, she would be here with him again. The warmth of her skin. The softness of her kiss. The melody of her voice, whispering in his ear.

Hunching over the glass dog, he hugged the figurine to himself and began to cry in wracking sobs.

I miss you, Elizabeth! his mind cried out. God, how I miss you!

~ ~ ~

Markus stood on the catwalk, arms folded across his chest, and watched the proceedings with a thoughtful expression on his lean face. In the chamber below, Kurdy was drilling a handful of recruits. Not an unusual sight these days with Daniel's forces gathering and a flood of refugees arriving every day, seeking protection.

"He's a natural," observed Erin.

Markus looked quite pleased with himself. Almost smug. "That's what I was counting on."

Erin stepped up to the rail for a better view of the training on the lower level. "Isn't that group a bit small? Six people? We have hundreds of recruits that need training and not much time to do it in."

"It's an idea Kurdy had," said Markus as he moved to join her at the rail. "Trained foot soldiers are important, but so are special forces."

"Special forces?"

"Snipers. Sappers. People to infiltrate where brute force might not work."

"Assassins."

"An ugly word," he said, glancing at her. "But essentially, yes. They could be. If that's what's needed."

Erin nodded her understanding. As distasteful as the thought was, such things were necessary in a war. Sometimes you had to break a few eggs, even if those eggs happened to be your own moralistic ideals.

"He's being a bit hard on them, isn't he?" she frowned as Kurdy slammed one of his recruits to the matted ground with bone-jarring force.

"He has to be. These are the ones that will be on their own. No army at their back. In and out or die trying." Markus winced as Kurdy tossed a second recruit over his shoulder with equally bruising force. "That had to hurt."

"I'd say something's pissed him off."

"Very probably." He gave her a wry smile. "This might be a good day to stay out of Kurdy's way."

~ ~ ~

Kurdy mopped sweat from his face and neck with a hand towel as he strode out of the training room. Behind him, five recruits with bruised bodies and equally bruised egos made their way to the showers.

Maybe I was a bit rough on 'em, he admitted grudgingly. He couldn't deny the fact that he'd taken some of his anger and frustration out on them. But if they couldn't take a bit of rough treatment from a friend, how the hell did they expect to survive the threat of capture and torture?

"Kurdy!" exclaimed a bright voice, entirely too cheerful for his current frame of mind. "Kurdy!" Huffing and puffing, a willowy man with a shock of black hair and an earnest expression jogged through the corridor to join him. "I'm glad I ran into you!"

Kurdy frowned and reached for a name. "Albius, right?"

"You remembered! Oh, I'm honored!" he said happily.

"I don't got any library books due, if that's what you're –"

"Oh no! Not at all!" laughed the Mountain's assistant librarian. "I was just wondering. I've been looking everywhere for your friend Mister Smith. Could you tell me if you've seen him?"

"No. I haven't seen him." Kurdy turned abruptly and began to stalk away.

"No? Not at all?" Albius jogged along side him like a twittering bird. "But, I thought you always knew where –"

"I'm not his keeper."

"No, of course not! I didn't mean to say . . . well . . . but, you're always together and I just thought –"

Kurdy turned abruptly. "I do NOT know where Smith is, alright?" he shouted in the librarian's face. "And I don't want to know!"

Albius took a timid step backward. "Oh! Oh, um, alright," he said nervously, alarmed by the vehemence in Kurdy's tone and manner. "I'm, erm, sorry to have bothered you." He took another step backward, like a hare about to bolt. "I'll just, um, go look elsewhere, shall I?" Turning on his heel, he fairly sprinted back down the corridor.

"ALBIUS!"

"Eep! Um . . ." The librarian turned back and cringed a bit, as if expecting to be pummeled at any moment by the hulking black man. "Yes?"

"What do you want Smith for?"

"Oh, nothing important! Didn't mean to bother you! I know you're busy. It can wait until I find him. It's just . . . " He fumbled with the edge of his tie. "If you see him, could you just mention, maybe in passing, that I found the book he was looking for?"

"What book?"

"Why, the one on decorative glass restoration," said Albius, as if that were plainly obvious. "I thought he was crazy when he asked for it, you know, but heavens!, we actually have a copy in the library! It's not in our card catalogs, so I can't imagine how on earth he knew. But there it was! I didn't believe him because we couldn't find it at first. It was miss-shelved under –"

"SHIT!" exclaimed Kurdy. He turned on his heel and ran back the way he'd come, right past the bewildered librarian.

"Was it something I said?" Albius asked meekly after the retreating form.

~ ~ ~

Kurdy was familiar with most of Mister Smith's haunts in the Mountain and went to each and every one of them in search of his self-proclaimed partner. He checked the crowded cafeteria filled with refugees and new recruits; he checked the library and the gym; he searched the small offices where Smith tended to sleep at night, never having requisitioned himself a room of his own; and he walked every catwalk and flight of stairs on the upper levels. No Smith. Anywhere.

Dammit, Smith! Why didn't you say something?! Why do you keep doing this sort of shit? Grumbling angrily to himself, Kurdy stalked across the lower garage on his way to ask the guard at the western entrance if Smith had gone out.

"Yo, Kurdy! Looking for your shadow?" called Martin, peering out from under the hood of one of the trucks in the service bay.

"Yeah. You seen him?"

"About two hours ago. He went out with Trent and Anna on the run to Stonehill." He paused to wipe grease-stained hands on the seat of his coveralls. "Seems like he was in a real hurry to get out of here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he had a helluva shiner. His right eye is damn near swollen shut. He musta pissed someone off pretty good. I don't blame him for wanting to put some distance between him and whoever did the number on him."

Kurdy felt a sharp stab of guilt deep in his chest and clenched his fists. "When are they due back?"

"Two days? Maybe three? Depends on how long they hang out to help at Stonehill."

"What are they delivering?"

"The usual Alliance Acceptance Kit. Radio, generator, water purification filters. Some food."

"Send someone to find me the minute they get back, Marty?"

"Okay, sure. No problem." He gave Kurdy a little wave and went back to tinkering with the truck engine.

Two days. Maybe three. By then maybe Smith would find the courage to come back. And maybe Kurdy would find a way to apologize.

~ ~ ~

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity in Thunder Mountain. More than four hundred refugees from the town of North Ridge straggled into the complex. They brought with them more than thirty wounded and word of Sims at the head of a caravan of trucks and soldiers in black, laying waste to any community that would not subjugate themselves to Daniel. The cafeteria staff, now open 24 hours, were doing their best to keep everyone fed and accommodated. The infirmary was filled to overflowing, necessitating beds in the corridors, and there were now so many recruits itching for a chance to fight back that training shifts had tripled. As fast as they sent trained troops out to Milhaven for assignment, more refugees arrived with the names of new areas in need of defense.

Kurdy worked through it all with calm and determination and earthy good humor. In addition to drilling his own special unit of guerillas, he found the time to visit every other session to offer advice or moral support. He made himself available for questions and worked hard to bolster despair with confidence and self assurance. He was so busy, in fact, that four days had passed before he again thought of his altercation with Mister Smith.

"Kurdy? Can I see you for a moment?"

"Not right now, Erin," he said as he tried to watch thirty new recruits lock and load with their eyes closed. "Give me about half an hour to –"

"Now, Kurdy."

The quiet authority in her tone stopped him. He knew that tone. His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

She glanced meaningfully at the recruits. "Markus would like to see you. It's important."

"Right," he said with a curt nod. "Jarvis! Get your ass over here!"

"Yes, sir!" One of the more seasoned soldiers watching on the sidelines jogged over and saluted.

"Run them through the drill. Twice. Then push ups and dismiss. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" She turned on her heel and faced the recruits. "Alright, you heard the man! Clips out! Right! Eyes closed! Begin!" she barked.

Kurdy followed Erin out of the training center and into the corridor. "What's going on?"

"Markus is waiting," was all she would answer.

They walked in tense silence through the crowded corridors, but instead of leading him to Markus' office, Erin turned in the opposite direction. She took him to the infirmary, past full beds and makeshift cots to the small examination room in the back. It was the one area free of beds and patients in order to grant the overworked medical staff some small modicum of privacy in their work.

Markus was waiting outside the door, arms folded across his chest and his expression grim. "We have a situation," he told Kurdy in a quiet, even tone.

"Sounds serious."

"Very. I want you to hear this. It concerns you."

Markus opened the door to the examination room. Inside, Anna sat on the examination table, a cup of coffee clutched between trembling hands. Her clothing was torn and muddied and her blonde hair was a tangle of knots, leaves, and filth. Her arms, legs, and face were covered in deep scratches and bruises. She didn't seem to notice them at first. Instead, she stared at the cup of coffee in her hands, her eyes large and haunted.

"Anna," said Markus gently, calling her back to herself. She looked up at him with hollow eyes, the grime on her face streaked with dried tears. "I'm sorry to put you through this again, but I need you to tell Kurdy everything you told me."

Anna's gaze shifted to Kurdy and her lower lip began to tremble. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes as her hands shook more violently, sloshing coffee over the cup rim. Erin reached forward and gently took it from her grasp, setting it aside.

"It's alright, Anna. You're safe now," Kurdy said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. But the expression in his eyes was hard and concerned. He already knew he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. Especially with Trent and Smith conspicuously absent. "Just take your time."

She nodded and sniffed, trying to rein in the flow of tears.

"You were on your way to Stonehill," Markus said helpfully.

"Stonehill," she repeated, her voice shaking. "We were delivering supplies. Radios and things. It was just going to be a short trip. Short. Safe. Keep to the main roads and everything will be fine." Her hands now empty, she clenched them rigidly in her lap. "Except Trent said he knew a shortcut. An old logging road. He said it would take half a day off the trip and get us back faster." Her eyes shifted from Markus back to Kurdy. "Mister Smith told him not to but Trent wouldn't listen. Said he was senior operative and he was in charge. We'd do it his way. He said it was his chance to get back into Kurdy's good graces."

"Doing stupid shit like that isn't the way to go about it," growled Kurdy.

"That's what Mister Smith said. He tried so hard to convince Trent it was a bad idea, but Trent just ignored him. He said he wasn't going to listen to some nut who thought he heard voices. But Trent was the one who practically drove us right into the middle of a raider camp!" she said, anguished.

"Damn!"

"Trent tried to put the truck in reverse as soon as he realized the lights ahead of us weren't the settlement, but by then it was too late! They'd already seen our headlights. He panicked and backed the truck into a tree. It wouldn't move!" She began to tremble as she remembered the night . . . the shouts of discovery and the sound of gunfire . . .

"Take your time," said Markus, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Anna squeezed her eyes closed and nodded, visibly struggling to control herself. She took a deep breath. "Trent jumped out of the truck and ran into the woods. The raiders were expecting that and went after him. I never saw him again."

"And Smith?" asked Kurdy.

"God bless him!" she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. "He pushed open the passenger door and told me to stay down. To use the door as a shield and to get out. He said the headlights would blind the raiders long enough fro me to hide in the underbrush. He said . . . he said to wait until they were gone, then try to make it back to the Mountain."

Yeah, that sounds like my boy, alright. "Then what did he do?"

"He stayed in the truck! As soon as he saw them coming he began to rev the engine, like he was going to run them over. But he couldn't! The truck was stuck. It wouldn't move! He knew that!"

"But they didn’t," said Markus.

"No. Not at first. They were too busy trying to break into the cab to get to him. It never occurred to them to look for anyone else."

"What happened to Smith?" asked Kurdy.

"They pulled him out and . . . they beat him. He . . . he wasn't moving when they dragged him off. A few stayed to free the truck and drove it into their camp. I waited most of the night, too terrified to move. Then, I started back the way we'd come. Trying to get back here." Her lower lip began to tremble again. "I'm so sorry! I should have done something! I should have helped them! But . . . I was too afraid." She began to sob, burying her face in her hands. "I was too afraid!"

"Sshhhhhhh. It's alright, Anna." Erin slipped a comforting arm around the woman's shoulders. "You did the right thing."

"Erin's right," said Markus grimly. "Trying to save them would only have endangered you further. Coming back and telling us what happened was important."

She nodded mutely but did not lift her face from her hands, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

Kurdy turned to Markus. Before he could open his mouth, the leader of Thunder Mountain and the infant Alliance said quietly, "No."

"No? What the hell do you mean, no?"

Markus sighed. "Exactly that," he said. "We don't know what we're up against here. We don't know how many raiders there are in that camp or if they're allied with Daniel's forces. We have too little information to send a troop in there. I know you're fond of Smith but –"

"Fond's got nothing to do with it," snapped Kurdy. "He's saved my life, Markus. Three times!"

"So you keep reminding me. I realize you feel obligated –"

"You're damned right I feel obligated! Whatever you think of Smith, he's a good guy."

"Kurdy—"

"He's helped us out any number of times and you know it!"

"Kurdy, if –"

"Those are our people out there, Markus! You gonna just let them sit and rot? Fuck that! I'm not --"

"KURDY!" Markus shouted. Kurdy snapped his mouth shut and glowered. "If you'll let me finish my thought?" he sighed in a calmer, although weary voice. "Erin and I have already discussed this."

Kurdy shot an angry glance at Erin who studiously ignored it.

"I don't like the odds. Not enough to send an entire troop and possibly provoke an incident with Daniel's forces before we're ready for a confrontation."

"Yeah, I got that."

"But," continued Markus, as if he had not been interrupted, "A smaller, more elite force might be able to infiltrate the raider camp and free our people without pointing a finger at the Mountain or our forces."

"In and out," said Erin. "That's what they're trained for, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Kurdy admitted grudgingly, eyes narrowed. "Let me get this straight. You're saying I can take my elite team in there to try and free Smith and Trent."

"And anyone else the raiders may have taken. Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying," nodded Markus. "Weren't you the one telling me at the last council meeting that they needed to be tested? It seems to me that this would be the perfect opportunity."

"And if we wind up with more information on the raiders or Daniel and his plans in the process, all the better," added Erin.

"Damn it, Markus! Then why the fuck didn't you just say so?" demanded Kurdy, frustrated.

"You didn't exactly give me the chance."

"Please?" Anna's voice was barely audible but she was looking up at them now, her eyes swollen and red but pleading. "Help them? If anything's happened to Mister Smith . . . if they've . . . they’ve . . ." Her voice hitched.

Kurdy reached out and gently took her small hands in his, almost completely enveloping them. "Don't you worry about Smith," he assured her with a confidence he didn't feel. "That dude's got more lives than a cat. If I know him, he's already got them opening a Sunday school and serving lemonade. But we're going to get him out of there. Alive." He turned to look at Markus. "That's a promise."

~ ~ ~

Everything hurt. Face, back, chest, legs. His left arm was the worst. He was pretty certain it was broken in two places. If he was lucky.

"No, don't move."

Mister Smith opened his eyes and looked up into a concerned young face, like a thinner version of Kurdy. It took a moment for memory and consciousness to catch up with him. To supply a name to the coffee-colored features and dark brown eyes. Abel.

"You just lay there," said the farmer as he lay a cool cloth on Smith's forehead. "Don't give 'em any more reason to beat the shit out of you, man."

"They don't need a reason." Mister Smith began to struggle to sit, favoring his left arm, while his benefactor looked around worriedly.

"You're a sucker for punishment, you know that?" But Abel set aside the cloth and the shallow bowl of water to carefully slip an arm under Smith's shoulders, helping him to sit. He eased him up so that his back was supported by the metal wall.

"Thanks."

"Sure. No prob."

Mister Smith looked beyond the strapping young farmer to the other captives sharing their cramped prison. In addition to himself and Trent, seven people were locked in the 24' long outbuilding, all travelers unfortunate enough to have fallen afoul of the raiders.

Trent. Mister Smith saw his erstwhile colleague standing at the farthest corner of the structure, alone and apart from everyone else. As if sensing Smith's gaze on him, Trent glanced at him with watery blue eyes. He quickly looked away again and hunkered down, his back pressed into the corner as if he hoped it would swallow him from view.

"Your friend don't look so bad," observed Abel, following Smith's gaze. "Just a few scrapes and bruises compared to the crap they been putting you through. Why the difference?"

"You could say I'm lucky that way," he replied wryly.

Abel shook his head. "Man, I don't know what it is they're trying to get you to tell 'em, but I'd start singing like a magpie if I was you. I don't think you can take much more of this."

"I won't have to," said Smith quietly. Something inside his chest was moving that shouldn't and he'd already been coughing up blood. He doubted he could survive another session. But that wasn't important. "Help is coming."

"Yeah. So you said," said Abel patronizingly but clearly skeptical. "If it's coming, it'd better hurry if it's going to find you still in one piece."

"God says, they're coming. He says, I will deliver you from evil."

Not "us", Abel realized and met Mister Smith's placid, almost peaceful gaze. There was pain there but also understanding. He didn't expect to be around when the rescuers – whoever they were – arrived. "You're doing this on purpose," he said softly in a voice of wonder. "You're deliberately letting them drag this out, aren't you? To give these rescuers of yours time to get here."

Mister Smith would have answered but a movement caught his attention and he looked up. Trent was standing there, glaring down at him. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his arms held rigidly at his sides.

"You've been saying that for four fucking days," said Trent in a voice shaking with frustration and anger. "Four fucking days! Well, where are they, huh? Where the FUCK are they?" he screamed at Smith. "I'll tell you where! They're sitting on their asses drinking coffee and laughing at us, that's where! They're not coming." He turned to the other captives, now sitting as motionless as statues, eyes wide and fearful. "You got that? They're NOT COMING! Why? I'll tell you why! Because of HIM!" He turned back to Mister Smith, a pale white finger pointing accusingly. "Because he's a nut case! He thinks he talks to God. You believe that? GOD! Like there is such a thing. Well, look where you're god got us, you freak! Look where we are! And because of you, they're not coming! They're not going to rescue us because they don't want YOU back!"

"They're coming, Trent," said Mister Smith with quiet conviction. "You'll be rescued." He lifted his head from where it had been resting against the wall. "All of you will," he continued, trying to sound reassuring. In his heart and his mind he knew help was on the way. He believed it completely. He just didn't know how close or how soon.

"You asshole! You think ANYONE would give a shit about YOU?" screamed Trent, and angrily pulled his foot back with every intention of kicking the helpless man before him.

A strong hand used to plowing and tilling fields caught his ankle and held it firmly in place, nearly tripping Trent. "You don't shut up, boy, and leave him the hell alone, I'm going to break it," said Abel evenly.

Trent hopped back, pulling his foot from the farmer's grip. He stepped back out of reach. "He's a crazy man," he spat. "You're helping a crazy man. And he's gonna get us all killed!"

"Seems to me he's the one getting himself killed."

Before Trent could reply, the heavy metal door to the shed flew open and slammed into the wall with a loud CLANG, jarring the entire building.

"What's going on in here?" A burly man with greasy hair streaked blue and a knotted beard stormed into the building. As barrel-chested and thick skulled as his namesake, Bull held a 3 foot long metal rod in his right hand, slapping it menacingly against the palm of his left. Standing slightly behind him were his two lieutenants, equally as brawny and ill kempt but armed with automatic rifles.

A pregnant hush fell over the occupants of the building. Trent's eyes grew wider still and he backed up until he encountered the wall and nowhere else to go.

"I ask a question, I expect an answer."

"It was him!" squeaked Trent, pointing a shivering finger at Smith seated on the floor 2 feet away. "He . . . he's trying to get the others to escape!"

"Is he now?" Bull strode into the heart of the building while his bodyguard remained standing on either side of the open doorway. He glanced down at Mister Smith with open amusement. "That true, preacher? You trying to give these folks the wrong idea?" When no immediate answer was forthcoming he clucked his tongue with disappointment. "Why won't you talk to me? I've been a very reasonable man, haven't I? You still have all your fingers and toes, don't you? You still have your eyes?" When he glanced at the trembling Trent he grinned wickedly, showing broken teeth. "Your buddy here got the message real fast. Practically begged us to let him spill his guts." Bull's dark gaze roamed back to Mister Smith and he laughed. "But you already figured that out, didn't you?"

Bull glowered at Abel who, with an apologetic glance at his patient, backed away. "See, the way I figure it," the raider continued as he stooped down to be face to face with Mister Smith, "You know something he don't. Something special that I'd really really like to hear. Like, maybe, a secret way into this Mountain of yours? Like a pass code?" He shook his head sadly. "But you won't share with us, will you? You won't help. That's not very neighborly. Still, no matter! I think your friend has given us enough to start with. We're going to go calling, see? Paying this Mountain of yours a visit. We're just waiting for a few friends to stop by. Friends with the kind of firepower we need to do a bit of excavating." He reached out with the lead pipe and gently, almost lovingly, caressed Smith's bruised and bloody cheek with the it. "Daniel's going to give your buddy Trent a nice, warm welcome. And if he continues to behave, maybe a reward or two. You, on the other hand . . . well . . ."

Bull sighed mournfully as he stood and looked down at his captive. "You're God got anything He'd like to say before I beat your brains out in front of all these lovely people?"

"Yeah. He does," said Mister Smith as he met Bull's gaze. "Fuck you."

"You first."

The raider swung the metal pipe at the helpless prophet in the same instant a loud thunderous roar filled the small confines of the building. Mister Smith gasped aloud as the pipe struck the wall inches to the left of his head, hard enough to put a dent into the metal. The rod fell to the ground and its wielder followed close behind, a gaping wound between his shoulder blades. The two guards at the door were already dead, caught from behind through the open door and throats slit in the few minutes it took their leader to taunt his captive on the other side of the building. In their place stood three androgynous figures, clothed from head to toe in black fatigues, their faces little more than shadows of dark paint and glittering eyes.

The soldiers stepped aside as Kurdy strode into the shed. He took one look around and turned to one of his men. "Get everyone out of here and into the truck. Lookout says we've got less than 20 minutes before Daniel's guys get here. Move!"

Trusting his orders to be followed, Kurdy hurried across the shed to where Smith sat. He reached down and, grabbing a fistful of shirt, pulled Bull's corpse out of the way and rolled it aside before kneeling beside his friend. His dark eyes met Smith's pain filled hazel. "You okay?"

"Been better," Smith admitted with a tiny smile.

"Well you look like shit." Kurdy frowned at the dark bruising around Smith's left eye that was very probably what he himself had inflicted. "Albius told me about the book. Man, why didn't you say something? You could've let me know what you were doing."

"It was going to be a surprise."

"Yeah, well, I was surprised, alright."

"Kurdy, I'm –"

"Don't you fucking tell me you're sorry," he snapped, cutting Smith off. "You ain't got nothing to be sorry about! I'm the one should be apologizing, and I will. But it's going to have to wait til we get back, okay? I've got a few things I need to finish up here first. Speaking of which." Kurdy glowered around the now nearly empty shed. "Where's that asshole Trent?"

"He was the first one out and onto the truck," said Abel, stooping down on the other side of Mister Smith. "I thought you might need a hand moving him."

"Thanks. I appreciate that --?"

"Abel."

"Kurdy."

The farmer nodded at Smith. "He said you'd come."

"God said," Smith corrected him earnestly. "I'm just the messenger."

"I don't know about that, Smith. Personally, I think you're losing your touch," said Kurdy as he carefully placed a hand under his friend's right arm. On the other side, Abel tried not to jar the broken left arm. "Looks to me like you didn't convert a single one of these suckers."

"Or get them to sell any lemonade," Mister Smith said tightly as they gingerly helped him to his feet.

Kurdy looked at him in surprise. "Now how could you possibly know . . .?" He suddenly shook his head, negating the question. "No, don’t tell me. I don't want to know. Come on," he said gruffly. "Let's get the hell out of here and see if all the king's horses and all the king's men can put your sorry ass back together again . . ."