Jeff Brackett - Half Past Midnight

They laughed obligingly, and I continued, “That seems to indicate the only thing that’s inevitable is death. Now you may not be able to avoid Death, but with the right attitude, and proper preparation, you can usually convince Him that there are easier pickings elsewhere.”

“Rule number one.” I pulled a throwing knife out of my belt. “Always carry at least two knives. Always. If you lose one…” I threw the blade, and they all watched as it stuck in the wooden target. When they turned back to face me, I had drawn two others from hidden arm sheathes. Image and attitude were everything in martial arts, so I continued unperturbed, as if I had done nothing in the least bit surprising. “You have a backup, and you’re never unprepared. Remember, it’s better to…”

They all knew the saying by that time, and joined in, “… have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”

I saw some of the students glance over my shoulder, then back. I had repeatedly stressed to my classes that they should always be prepared for the unexpected, never underestimate their opponents, and never let themselves be taken by surprise.

It had therefore become something of an ongoing challenge for them to try and catch me by surprise, and they all wanted to be on hand if it happened. I could tell by the way they studiously avoided looking toward me that someone was coming from the house. Searching their faces, I noted that Rene had an expression of intense loathing on her face.

Remembering how her husband had died, I spoke without turning. “What is it, Billy?” Image again.

I sensed his surprise as well as that of the gathered students as he paused before speaking. “Sensei, someone to see you.”

I turned to face the young man who had come up beside me. Billy Worecski had changed quite a bit since Ken and I had carried him into the hospital two years back, not so much physically, as emotionally.

At first insisting on his innocence in the attack on the ill-fated Robertsons, he had testified at his trial that he and his friends had come upon the scene after the couple was dead. They had simply taken advantage of the empty house full of food and liquor.

When Megan, Ken, and I testified that his buddies were also “taking advantage” of Pat Robertson’s corpse, and that we had heard two of the thugs joking about how they had killed John Robertson, it became obvious to him that he was in a losing situation. At that point, he changed his story completely. He broke down, admitting he had been with the group when they had overrun the Robertson’s home, but still denying that he had actually killed anyone. He was a young kid who had been swept up with a group of killers and was too afraid to leave.

Rejas’s forensic specialist supported this testimony, stating that none of the wounds sustained by John Robertson had been made by the rifle I had taken from Billy that day.

The judge, however, found him guilty of felony murder since the Robertsons had both died during the commission of a felonious act in which Billy admitted involvement. He deliberated a long time before passing a most unusual sentence.

“I have never before been called upon to pass judgment on a case so terrible. It has, in the past, been my great fortune to preside in a peaceful town. I have always been a believer in the sanctity of life, and it infuriates me to hear of the brutal deaths of two of my townspeople. I am sorely tempted to pass a sentence of death as an example to any who might think to repeat such a heinous act.” He had paused dramatically, staring straight into Worecski’s eyes, making him shift nervously in his seat.

“But since the insanity of the Doomsday War,” he continued, “it seems to me that every life is doubly precious, and I find I cannot bring myself to take another, even such a miserable life as that of Billy Worecski, as it won’t bring John or Patricia Robertson back to us.

“So I am faced with the problem of finding a way to assure myself and my constituents of Mr. Worecski’s good behavior if I allow him to live. Life in prison would be the normal sentence, but the nearest prison is in Huntsville and, considering the condition of the country right now, it is probably full of radioactive fallout and dead prisoners.

“I therefore have granted myself a bit of imaginative license. I rule that Billy Worecski shall be marked with a tattoo in the middle of his forehead for all to see and recognize. He shall be released into the custody of Kenneth Simms, as it is Mr. Simms who spared his life when he could easily have taken it. He shall be Mr. Simms’ charge for a period of ten years, at which time his record shall be reviewed. If he has shown himself to be a dependable asset during that time, the tattoo may be surgically removed, and Mr. Worecski shall be allowed to take his place in our society.”

I think Ken was as shocked as Worecski. “Your Honor!” he sputtered. “You can’t… that is, I can’t take this kind of responsibility. You’re making him into a slave.”

“The only alternative I have is to pass a sentence of death, Mr. Simms. Would you prefer that?”

And so, Ken acquired a slave. Many would view it as a bit of poetic justice, a black man getting a white slave. Not Ken. Worecski was his on paper only.

As soon as Billy got his tattoo and they delivered him to our door, Ken made his position clear. “I’m going to tell you this one time, and one time only. Leeland and I argued out there for some time about whether or not we should finish you off. Leeland won that argument, and that’s the only reason you’re standing here right now. I was ready to slit your throat.” He glared for a moment, making sure he was getting his point across. “So I’m going to give you the only order I’ll ever give you.”

He pointed at me. “You do anything Leeland Dawcett tells you to do, when he says to do it, and better than he wants it done, or I’ll do what I should have done then.”

Then he had stalked out of the room, leaving my slave and I equally dumbfounded.

“Sensei?” Billy jarred me back from my reverie. My eyes were drawn to the large black encircled “7-34” on his forehead representing the month and year he would be eligible for freedom. If his review was not favorable, the date would be tattooed over leaving a solid black circle, and he would spend the rest of his life as a slave.

In the time since Billy’s sentence, Rejas had had six more instances of marauder bands attacking some of the outlying homesteads and dozens of individual pilferers. The town had lost seven more people to the gangs, among them Rene’s unfortunate husband. But we had acquired thirty-eight more slaves. Two of them had been shot when they fought against the tattooist. The others had spread the word among themselves, and we hadn’t had any further trouble. Since the death of her husband, Rene hated them all.

“Sorry, Billy. Who is it?”

“Mayor Kelland. He’s waiting in the house.”

“Thanks.” He nodded and turned back to the house. I turned the group over to Eric and went over to where Megan was sparring. “Megan, I’m going inside. Finish up out here.”

I watched as she swept one opponent off of his feet and locked his arm over one knee, under the other as she knelt over him, evading a strike from the other opponent. She grabbed the second attacker’s arm and twisted her wrist in a way that Mother Nature never intended it to bend, bringing that opponent to the ground with an awkward thud. Then she held both in place for a moment to show that she was in full control of the situation before releasing them.

She stood and turned to me. “No problem, Dad.”

I grinned as I headed back to the house.

The mayor looked up as I entered. “Somethin’ funny?”