The team heals. Some moreso than others.
Minka seethes and worries. Red is adamant that she cannot ride until her crushed foot is fully healed. There’s no way to know how the things in her blood will reassemble the bones if she keeps abusing them. But her need to get back on Wiegel, to prove to herself that he’s still her horse, is gnawing at her.
Wiegel is not helping. He might still be her horse, but he may no longer be a horse. The village’s livestock is terrified of him, especially the other equines. They react to him as they would to any other large predator. The dogs go into full threat display until he bares his fangs and lunges at one in a very clear warning, at which point they scatter and rapidly fuck off toward the horizon. After that, the dogs won’t approach his enclosure.
There are two exceptions. The first is Mrs. O’Leary, who remained behind in the presumptive safety of Ponikla when Octavia joined the expedition team. Upon their first encounter, the battle-cow eyes Wiegel, who’s salivating in her general direction, and points a horn at his face until he gets the message that she’s not a meal worth pursuing. After that, the two seem to have a mutually assured destruction pact.
The second exception is the one-eyed, one-eared black-and-white tomcat who’s claimed Magda as his human and her kitchen as his domain. If Magda is anywhere near Minka’s house and paddocks, the cat is invariably perched atop a fencepost or sunning himself on a roof, ostentatiously keeping his scarred-over eye socket aimed toward Wiegel.
Leks’ immobility is giving him too much time to think. After a couple days of inactivity, he sends one of the teenagers to fetch Red – and, not without some reluctant consideration, Arkadi. It’s time for an after-action review.
Zenobia and Red task Miko with daily checks of the river. The days since the Battle of Horse Eater Hill have been clear and unseasonably not-cold, but the Pilica is running high. Flooding isn’t an imminent danger, but it’s on everyone’s minds. Red consults with Wilhelm and the other elders, and the reluctant consensus is to divert part of the agricultural labor force – and any fuel production surplus to defense needs – to completing the flood wall project. Zenobia and Arkadi find themselves constantly being pulled away from other tasks to keep the village’s small bulldozer operational.
Alexei has been developing a bad case of itchy fingers from talking to the teenagers who the team brought in from the PKP repair yard. He has enough foresight to approach Red with his intentions. The doctor sighs, presses his forehead, and gives a reluctant “yes” with the proviso that Alexei take at least one of the village’s primary combatants for protection… and adult supervision.
With a green light for his scheme, Alexei rounds up Malvina, Pawel, and Irina, along with Stanislaw and Arkadi. The ad-hoc squad piles into the deuce-and-a-half and heads south. The younger teens don’t have the technical know-how to do too much useful independent work, but they know the area, and they can still take lookout shifts to free up Stanislaw and Arkadi for scavenging.
A day and a half of picking through derelict offices, workshops, and rolling stock gives Alexei most of the parts he needs for several plans he has on his workbench, along with a number of mechanical spares that will go straight into Minka’s workshop. The effort also yields a self-winding wristwatch, an East German army parka in Arkadi’s size, and a few luxury items with potential trade value.
With the point of diminishing returns approaching swiftly, the scavengers pack up and head for Opoczno. Alexei takes the lead on haggling with the town’s now-familiar merchants. He comes away with a smattering of parts and tools, a Betamax player with bootleg copies of Aladdin and The Crow, three boxes of ammo for Arkadi’s Skorpion (.32 ACP is one of the calibers the village doesn’t have in quantity – or, indeed, at all), and enough winter clothing that everyone still in need (mostly the PCs) will have adequate cold-weather gear.
He leaves a date, a time, and a series of numbers.
Work in the fields doesn’t stop. The September rain slowed the harvest, but there are still beets, cabbage, and potatoes to bring in, along with the last of the apples and pears. When he’s not otherwise occupied, Miko is a constant, energetic contributor, seemingly immune to rain, mud, and the need for sleep.
Magda’s kitchen crew knows their business. The team of weathered grannies and sometimes-reluctant teens is sorting, canning, pickling, and butchering at full speed. They carry on without Magda’s presence, but there’s a definite increase in momentum the first day Red clears her to limp back into the hostel and supervise, her injured arm still tightly wrapped and subject to daily inspections.
Zenobia, Leks, and Minka spend a couple of afternoons clustered around a table with Léonard Pan, the village’s MSF administrator turned local logistician. No one likes their conclusions. The bulldozer may technically be capable of a 50-kilometer trip, but it’s essential to flood wall construction, and its fuel consumption, speed, and advanced age all argue against the mission. The village’s fuel reserves are nonexistent after the Horse Eater encounters and subsequent mopping-up expedition, and the DT-75’s questionable service record with Ponikla strongly suggests that on an overland march, it will spend more time under repair than in motion.
Zenobia spends a good few hours seething in rage. “We need a big flatbed truck. Or a tank transporter,” she tells Red. “We’re not done with that place.”
Minka solemnly nods confirmation. “As long as anything built still stands on that crossroads, it’s an open door. Fire might not be enough. I need chalk and salt.”
Red sighs and presses his forehead. “I hear you. Okay. Tank transporter. Chalk. Salt. I’ll put them on the list.” He looks up at Zenobia. “In the meantime, once all our gear is fixed up, let’s go back to Rawa Mazowiecki and see what we can work out with the Majewskis. The problem is in their backyard. Their troops should at least be able to keep an eye on it.”
The moment the salvage and trade expedition returns, Alexei heads straight for his workbench. He begs help from anyone and everyone: Zenobia and Arkadi for technical assistance, Miko and the pack of teenagers for running cables and climbing the roof of the village admin building, Magda for a serving of her carefully-hoarded coffee to fuel his frenetic all-nighter.
As soon as Alexei has his project in a stable state, he and Arkadi are back on the road. They load their gear (and a good chunk of Alexei’s work) back into the deuce-and-a-half, pick up Red and Zenobia, and head to Rawa Mazowiecka by way of the North Farms. Alexei sleeps most of the way while Zenobia drives and Red and Arkadi keep wary eyes on the landscape.
Red and Zenobia make their case to the Rawa Mazowiecka authorities. It’s an easy sell – the town’s own losses to the Horse Eaters are still raw, and the site really is in their backyard. What seals the deal is the delivery Alexei makes – both the equipment and the painstakingly-detailed photocopied instructions for setup and maintenance. At the end of the day, Rawa Mazowiecka tentatively enters the regional alliance that Red and Zenobia have been forging. Their militia will maintain a constant watch on Horse Eater Hill, with the understanding that Ponikla will organize a disproportionately heavy response if any further activity manifests.
The team returns bolstered by two. RAF Flight Lieutenant Oscar Jackson and Flying Officer Rhianon Morgan have said their goodbyes in Rawa Mazowiecka and are eager to be back among fellow westerners. There’s an additional escort for the homeward leg, too: Julian Jablonski and three of his motorcycle scouts, sent to learn the routes to the North Farms and Ponikla (and, Red suspects, to validate some of his claims just to set the Majewskis’ minds at ease regarding their new alliance).
A stained and scorched Zenobia walks into Red’s tiny office in the village clinic and leans against the wall. Red pivots in his swivel chair. Sniffs. Frowns at the smell of ozone and burnt hair.
Zenobia smirks and flips the light switch.
In Rawa Mazowiecka’s town hall, Natan Majewski checks his mantel clock. He stands and stretches, then walks out into the hallway. Liwia is just exiting her office at the other end of the building. They’ve been married long enough to communicate with a shared glance. Together, they descend the staircase and enter the assembly hall.
At the North Farms, everyone who didn’t draw a short straw for sentry or herd duty converges on the Zabek farmstead, whose patriarch won the right to host in a bloody series of chess brackets. They crowd into the machine shed, faces aglow with soft light unseen in years.
In Ponikla, Alexei Brandt holds his breath and flips a breaker. Indicator lamps flicker to life. Needles quiver and stabilize. Under the glow of a red NA ANTENIE sign, Alexei slots a cassette tape and presses Play.
In Opoczno, in Bialobrzegi, in Rawa Mazowiecka and Skarzysko Kamienna and the North Farms and a nameless mining town, people cluster around radios – some salvaged, some the crude but functional products of Alexei’s workbench, some running on generator power, some on carefully-hoarded batteries.
The hiss of static gives way to a crackle.
As the final piano notes fade, Alexei keys the studio microphone. “This is Radio Free Ponikla and that was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto 2, going out to you, Dad. Next up, for all our listeners, a reminder that you’re not alone – and a reminder to our friends in the east, as well.”
In a forward headquarters somewhere between Radom and Zwolen, Major Maksim Volkov exchanges a sharp glance with his adjutant.
We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore
And in a dark room, a man with a bandage over his eyes and headphones over his ears snaps his fingers to get the attention of a drowsy soldier. “We have a new intercept source. Get the baron.”
We’ve got the right to choose, and
There ain’t no way we’ll lose it
This is our life, this is our song
We’ll fight the powers that be, just
Don’t pick our destiny, ’cause
You don’t know us, you don’t belong
It begins.
Pebbles make ripples.
Slosh. Slosh.
Five weeks later, having finished up my re-reading of all the blogs, I hit this one and get a sinking OOC feel that I know who that Baron is…