Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

He opened his eyes and said, We come to celebrate what is and mourn what was. Here, we acknowledge the growth of your bodies and your minds. Here, you learn where you come from and who you are. You must remember what I tell you today for the rest of your lives. I’ll not tell the tale again, and one day, you must come to this place and tell it to your own children. That is your charge. Take this greatest of all gifts—knowledge—and pass it on in your turn, and you will perpetuate all that is good in the world. You will stand vigil against the vile, the destructive, the cruel and merciless. There is nothing more at stake today, and nothing less. Do you understand?

The children nodded, solemn, eyes wide. Crickets struck up their low, buzzing orchestra. The sun trekked across the sky. The Earth turned. And the man began his story.

1

Gabriel Troy crouched beside the blown-out windows as bullets whizzed by and pockmarked the wall. A double-barreled shotgun lay in the dirt and broken glass at his feet. His right hand clutched the .357, its barrel pointed up. He stuck his left index and middle fingers through the hole in his shirt and yanked, ripping most of the sleeve away. With the makeshift rag, he applied pressure where the bullet had gouged a shallow two-inch-long trench across his right shoulder. The wound bled and pulsed, but the arm seemed sound. Regardless, he could not stay put for long.

When the heretics had spotted him and opened fire, Troy had ducked into the Danna Student Center, a building where, if the histories told true, scholars had gathered for meals. Its windows had been shattered long ago, its walls vandalized with paint and edged weapons of who knew what kind or origin. Some of the graffiti looked old enough to have been written before the Purge. The floors were covered in dirt, broken plaster, shards of glass, animal droppings, and piles of rotting leaves.

Still, the façade seemed sturdy. A few Troubler guns ain’t gonna bring it down. If we live through this, I’ll assign a renovation crew here. About time somebody did.

The shells of old vehicles had, over the long years, been hauled away to the western dumping ground, most of the burned and ruined buildings repaired or razed, but some, like this one, had never been touched. Always too much to do, never enough time.

A rifle blast disintegrated part of the wall over Troy’s head. No time for ruminations. He grabbed his shotgun, stood, and ran, hurdling rubble and firing through the glassless windows. At the end of the hallway, he ducked again, leaning the shotgun against the wall and pulling the pack off his back. He dug through it and found some bullets and reloaded his Magnum, listening in vain for cries from outside. Reckon I missed em all. Well, I was runnin and shootin blind.

Scattered small-arms fire suggested the Troublers had hunkered down in the Peace Quad, but at any moment, they might stop pressing their luck and rabbit. If they crossed Broadway in Willa McClure’s direction or headed back across Calhoun where old Ernie Tetweiller waited, things might get sticky. The girl and the elder were mainly supposed to be noisemakers, kicking up enough ruckus to herd the Troublers toward Jack Hobbes or Gordy Boudreaux. If that failed, the Troublers might duck into one of the unlocked buildings and turn this firefight into a siege. I gotta drive em toward St. Charles, and I gotta do it now.

But even that presented risks. If the Troublers crossed St. Charles, they would disappear amid the crops and trees in Audubon Park. As directed, the field workers and foresters had slipped away as the time for the raid drew near so no citizens would be harmed, but even Santonio Ford would struggle to track the Troublers if they split up. At best, pursuing them would mean a firefight on open ground or in a wooded spot of the Troublers’ choosing. Best if the battle ended here.

More shots—from Bobet or Marquette Hall? Those buildings had been renovated during Tetweiller’s tenure as lord. Troy had earmarked them for storage and apprentice housing, but no one had moved in yet, meaning their doors were bolted with heavy chains and padlocks, the keys to which hung on a wall in Troy’s office. Still, the Troublers could perhaps break through the fortified windows. He could not let that happen. To keep them in the open, he would have to show himself without getting killed and then lead them across the horseshoe-shaped drive facing St. Charles. If he could manage it, he and his crew could neutralize the entire nest.

Another shot tore through the wall, showering him with dust. You had to laugh at the irony, or maybe cry—a gunfight in a place once called Peace Quad. He reached into his pack and pulled out six grenades, three smoke bombs and three concussives, and cradled them in his left arm as he closed his eyes. Lord, keep me and mine safe. Guide my hand. And forgive me for the wrongs I’ve done. Then he took a deep breath, selected a concussion grenade, and pulled the pin. He threw it out the window as hard as he could and crawfished back the way he had come, tossing grenades every few feet, alternating the concussions and the smokes. Halfway down the hall, the first grenade exploded. The roar echoed and amplified off the surrounding buildings. The student center shook. Chunks of earth and grass spattered the wall behind him. Dust and smoke blanketed the quad, and from somewhere in that miasma, human voices screamed.

Troy retrieved his shotgun and the Magnum. Then he kicked open the splintered door and dashed outside, firing into the gloom. They’re hurt and blind, he shouted. Rip em to pieces.

Let’s hope they ain’t figured out I’m talkin to myself.

To his right,