Confederation -- 18

Hattie

She now thought of herself as Hattie. In her mind, she was Hazel no longer. That was another person who'd lived in another time. Hattie was a stronger name, someone who didn't feel grief, someone who survived, and most especially, someone who lived for revenge.

She wore a pair of her father's overalls. The legs had been cut off at ankle length, and the suspenders were cinched up to the max. A couple of tee shirts covered by a baggy sweatshirt camouflaged the fact that she had breasts. She'd chopped her ponytail off, and now her hair hung in a ragged mop that could have been a boy's.

A belt around her waist carried her Dad's hunting knife, a butcher knife in an improvised sheath, the small hatchet, and the twenty-two Ruger pistol. It was a nine-shot, semi-automatic covered with rust, but it was deadly accurate and always hit where she pointed it, as several rabbits had found out to their disadvantage.

She was very careful when she approached the culvert, stopping and inspecting the ground for signs of an invader and ensuring that she left no track of her own.

She was alone now. Katie had quietly died the second night they were in the culvert. Perhaps it was just old age, or perhaps the dog felt as much grief at the loss of her family as Hattie did. Either way, it didn't make any difference. When Hattie woke up, Katie was stiff, and her body was cold.

She'd dragged the last member of her family into the cornfield to bury. Then thinking better of it, she'd carried the dog into the farmyard and left her body to decompose behind the barn. There were dog dishes and food on the remains of the porch, and the dog's absence might make an enemy suspicious. Better to just let nature take its course.

By now, the crows and other birds had been at the bodies. Hattie wanted to bury her parents, but the same consideration held. The act of burying implied survivors, and survivors meant there was someone to hunt. She didn't want to send that message.

She'd been lucky to find the pistol hidden in the tin box under the floorboards. Her Dad hadn't believed in guns, but for some reason, he had hidden the small pistol and three boxes of long-rifle ammo along with the deed to the farm. The box had also contained her parent's marriage certificate, two hundred dollars in paper money, some older silver coins, and three gold coins.

The paper money wouldn't buy much. She knew from hearing her parents talk that the only thing most people would take were silver coins. Nevertheless, she carefully hid the box under a rock at the edge of the field. She'd keep the marriage certificate in remembrance.

The deed to the farm had no meaning in this world. Things belonged to those who were strong enough to take and hold them. That was an obvious truth to her. Her parents hadn't been strong enough.

She'd hidden through two additional incursions of the Motherland Army. The last time they'd been in the farmyard, there had been a lot of cursing about the fact that the place was already stripped. One of the ragged men had gone on about how big a mistake it had been for him to join the Motherland Army and ended by calling it the 'Mother-effin' waste.'

Hattie thought that was far more appropriate. Motherland somehow had the connotation of a desirable thing. The army she'd seen was in no way desirable or admirable. She was dead set on staying out of their hands, and their appearance reinforced that desire. She had no delusions about what would happen to her if she were captured.

She was lurking just inside the edge of the cornfield, watching the mostly burned-out house. She'd seen a small group of men heading down the road toward the homestead, and she'd finally decided that she was ready for revenge.

Today's group of self-styled soldiers was coming down the road. There were just three of them, walking cautiously along, keeping a close look-out for trouble. They rounded the barn and immediately took to cursing, just like the last group.

"Damn it! Some greedy SOB has already taken this place down. There ain't nothin' here worth the walk," said the apparent leader.

His nearest companion added, "Looks like two dead homesteaders here. Woman over there probably put up a fight, or they'd a taken her with them."

The leader responded, "Maybe, less she wasn't pretty enough. I'd as soon shoot an ugly one as have to listen to 'er complaints."

The third turned with a laugh and said, "You'd shoot her alright, but what gun would ya use?"

They all laughed at that.

Hattie didn't laugh. She was aiming the little Ruger at the leader.

The pistol snapped viciously, and the leader grunted and then said slowly, "What?"

He opened his mouth again, and a stream of blood ran out over his beard. He slowly put his hand on his chest and then toppled over.

Both of the others were trying to look in every direction at once, their rifles at their shoulders. The single-shot had echoed off the barn, and the men were looking suspiciously at the barn door, the chicken coop, and the hay-mow window, which was hanging open.

Hattie aimed carefully and shot again. The third man screamed, dropped his rifle, then clapped his hand to the side of his neck. A bright red gout of blood sprayed through his fingers. He sat down in the dust. The drops of blood were splattered across the area to his right, making a somewhat artistic display, bright red against the light-brown dust.

The last man was shooting at the barn. He still hadn't figured out where Hattie was hiding. She waited for him. His rifle fired several three-shot bursts, and then the bolt locked open. He started fumbling at his belt, trying to open the magazine pouch there. Just as he got it open, Hattie shot him in the stomach. The little slug splatted home, and he grabbed his gut with a curse.

She shot again, and he dropped the rifle when the bullet hit his upper arm. He cursed and started towards the back of the house, heading around the cistern and staggering away from her. She stepped out of the corn and yelled, "Hey, Mister. You came to the wrong place."

He turned slowly to look at her. His face betrayed amazement, "A stinkin' kid! I been shot by a stinkin' kid."

She just nodded and answered, "Yep. That's the way it is." She paused, but he didn't say anything, so she added, "And, I'm going to finish the job."

He started to hobble faster. She lifted the little Ruger and carefully shot two rounds into the center of his back. One of them must have hit his heart. He slowly folded at the waist and toppled forward, landing face-first in the bloody dust.

She sighed, shook her shoulders to clear the tension as she popped the magazine out of the bottom of the pistol's grip. Seconds later, she had reloaded it with six more cartridges. Her mind was blank, no emotions at the moment, just attending to business.

She collected the three rifles and the soldiers' knives. One of them, the leader, also had a nine-millimeter Glock. She took it along with two full magazines he had in a pocket. Next, she checked the others' pockets. One had some jewelry that she kept for possible barter, and the other had a nice pocket knife.

The rifles were military carbines of a standard sort. She didn't know much about weapons, but these looked like the ones she'd seen somewhere. She couldn't remember if she'd seen them in a magazine or on TV. It had been so long since the TV went out, and she'd been a child then. She didn't want to think about it.

After fiddling with the various buttons and knobs on one of the weapons, she figured out how to release the magazine and operate the bolt. The safety was a little rotating lever on the left side of the bottom by the magazine well. It had several positions, allowing for, she surmised, single shots, automatic fire, and a safety position.

She took a moment to climb into the barn and looked out the haymow window. The road was easily visible from this height, and no one was coming or going in any direction. She decided to experiment with the rifle. Sliding the safety lever to the first position, she shouldered the weapon and aimed at the first raider's body. The rifle banged, much louder than she'd expected, but the recoil was largely absorbed by a spring in the stock. The corpse jerked with the impact. Shooting the thing wasn't so bad. She pulled a rag out of her pocket and tore off a couple of small pieces to stick in her ears.

The next shot wasn't nearly as unpleasant. She'd aimed at the second body, and the round showed that it was far more powerful than the little Ruger. The corpse's head practically exploded. She laughed out loud in surprise, then shot the third man also. With her laugh, her emotions started working again.

She'd expected to feel horrified about killing people. She was amazed. She felt good. Empowered and, maybe a little bit, satisfied.

She carried all of the weapons to the culvert and hid the jewelry in the tin box under the rock, taking the silver and gold coins out and putting them into a small pouch she carried. Back at the culvert, she loaded up all of the magazines in a bag with a shoulder strap that she'd taken off one of the men, got her canteen and other supplies that she thought she'd need, and then deliberated for a moment over the Glock. She ended up leaving it in favor of the Ruger. She could hit with the twenty-two, and it wasn't loud enough to give her away if she had to hunt. She didn't know about the Glock, but it was undoubtedly a lot louder. She holstered the little twenty-two pistol and climbed up on the road carrying the best one of the three rifles.

Hattie looked both directions and then set out towards the south. The nearest intersection was there, and she was going to head towards the mountains.