by Tom Abrahams
The woman gave chase, screaming behind her, keeping up this time. While Sally didn’t want to do this, it was the only way. Enough runs on the underground railroad had taught her how to make things happen. More than anything, the threat of losing a child was the greatest motivator to the men and women who sought passage. Even if that threat was letting go of the child for a moment, relinquishing it to the hands of a benevolent conductor like Sally, it was enough to make a parent push past the point of exhaustion, fear, or resignation.
At the opposite end of the dead-end street was a house that was smaller than those around it. It almost looked like a garage in comparison to the more stately homes that lined the block. Standing in the doorway was the next conductor on the railroad. He was a tall, slender man dressed in black, who was waving at her frantically. Sally didn’t recognize him. That was how it was supposed to be.
Evading the searchlight by finding a path along the edge of the street, she reached the man on the front stoop. She shoved the child at him in the moment before the mother reached them, panicked but alive with newfound purpose.
“Here,” said Sally, “take it. I gotta go.”
The conductor took the child and ushered the woman into the small house. Before the woman crossed the threshold, Sally yanked the black fabric from around the woman’s head, bundled it into a ball, and cradled it against her chest.
“Get her a new one,” she snapped at the conductor and bolted from the stoop.
It was the one and only time that address would be used as a station. Within seconds the new conductor, the woman, and her child wouldn’t be there anymore. They’d be on the second leg of the journey, extending their tracks wherever they might lead. Sally would never know whether or not the woman reached her intended destination. It didn’t matter. She’d done her job by delivering her to the station. Now she had to take care of herself.
The chopper was almost overhead. It was following her. There was no escaping it.
She cut across two yards and found herself in an alley. She sprinted along the length of the narrow passage until she found a wider street with more possibilities.
The spotlight from above illuminated everything around her. She couldn’t see beyond the scope of the light. The wind whipped the hoodie from her head. It chilled the sweat that stuck her hair to her forehead and the sides of her face. Grit blasted her from all directions. The chopper was no more than fifty feet from the ground.
“Stay where you are,” came the call from directly overhead. “Do not move. This is an order from the Population Guard.”
Sally cursed again. Out of options, there was only one thing to do. She stood there, swaying, putting her face into the balled fabric at her chest. She nestled it there and spoke to it.
“You are smart to comply,” said the voice. “We are lowering a ladder. A team of guards will restrain you and take possession of your child. Do not resist.”
Sally didn’t acknowledge the command. She tightened her hold on the bundle, protecting it from the whirlwind, soothing it against the noise.
A rope ladder dropped from the light, twisting and stretching against the wind until the weight of three Pop Guards steadied it. The helmeted men planted their feet on the ground.
One of them stood holding the ladder with one gloved hand. The other held an automatic rifle across his body armor. The second stood watch, holding his weapon level at Sally’s head. The third was empty-handed and moved toward Sally with his arms extended.
With his palms up he motioned with his gloved fingers for her to hand the bundle to him. The wind whipped such that dust clouded the spotlight illuminating the guards, the ladder, and Sally.
She didn’t comply at first. She took a step back, toward the edge of the light’s reach. The guard with his rifle raised reacted, moving two steps closer, behind the unarmed guard’s left shoulder.
“Do not resist,” boomed the loudspeaker above her head. “We will use lethal force.”
Sally buried her face in the fabric, waiting. Her timing had to be perfect. Her aim had to be spot on. Otherwise her time as a conductor, her time on Earth, was over.
The empty-handed guard motioned again and moved toward her, as did the one providing cover. They were a good twenty-five feet from the ladder and the third guard.
Wait. Wait. Wait. Now!
When the guard in front of her reached for the bundle, Sally withdrew outside the outer edge of the light and, in a fluid series of motions so effortless it must have seemed as if she’d rehearsed it, she tossed the bundle at the guard leveling the rifle.
He reacted by taking one hand from the weapon and the other from the trigger, trying to catch what he thought was a child. Sally dropped to one knee and pulled a .45-caliber Beretta from the concealed-carry pouch at the small of her back.
She punched two rounds into the legs of the empty-handed guard. He collapsed in pain, writhing, grasping at his shattered kneecaps.
The second he hit the ground, Sally unleashed a volley of rounds at the guard who now held a bundle of cloth against his chest. The first of the shots hit the armor plating at his chest and knocked him back a step. The second and third found his neck and jawline.
Without paying attention to what happened next, Sally stood, moved to her right, and spun. She emptied the magazine into the guard holding the ladder. His body went limp and tangled with the rope before he could return a single shot. By the time the men in the chopper knew what happened, she was gone, and the .45 was reloaded.
Sally darted into the nearest alley and found a large trash can. The chopper was higher in the air now, the searchlight dancing across the rooftops and empty streets. It was getting closer again. They wouldn’t give her a chance to surrender this time. They’d kill her on sight.
Lifting the lid of the large can and bracing for the dank odor of rot that permeated its insides, Sally stepped into the can and crouched down while pulling the lid atop her.
The odor was almost overwhelming. She was sweating profusely. Beads of sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging them almost as much as the putrid stench inside the can stung her nostrils and throat.
Resisting the urge to puke, she swallowed hard and worked to slow her breathing. Her pulse thumped at her temples and her neck. Her heart pounded in her chest.
This was not the first time Sally had killed Pop Guards. She tried not to think about whether the men had families of their own: wives, children, homes. The Pop Guards were just doing their job. She knew that. But their job was to separate families, take children from their mothers. Their job was to control not only the population but the people themselves.
It was worth killing a guard or three to save the lives of a family truly in need. That was what she told herself as she listened to the beat of the helicopter’s rotors grow louder and then fade into the warm Georgia night.
CHAPTER 4
APRIL 17, 2054, 6:45 AM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
NEW BOSTON, TEXAS
Warner leaned against the brick wall of a three-story building that was white on the bottom and red on the top. He struck a match and lit a hand-rolled cigarette that stuck to his dry, cracked lips. The match sizzled as it reached his fingertips. He let it burn for an instant before pinching it out, then drew the smoke into his lungs and let it peel from his nostrils into the early morning air.
The sun was rising, casting a fiery glow along the horizon, putting into shadow the buildings that dotted the small town. He took another drag and flicked the ash onto the dirt at his boots.
“Looks like everything’s ablaze, don’t it?” he asked Blessing. “Sky’s all on fire, smoldering at the edges and ready to blow.”
Blessing grunted. The man didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His handiwork did the talking for him. When he did speak, it was all the more impactful.
“I love this time of day,” said Warner, tipping the Duncanville Panthers ball cap back on his head. “So many possibilities are out there, ya know? The chance for
so many good things lies ahead.”
Blessing grunted again and ran the toe of his boot across the dirt in front of him. It scraped along and drew a divot in an arc, like a line nobody dared cross. He cleared his throat and folded his arms across his body.
“I always start my day all philosophical-like, ya know?” Warner’s question was rhetorical. He knew Blessing knew that. “Then things happen during the day that bring me back down to Earth. This dry, mother-loving godforsaken Earth. A plague here, a drought there, tyrants all peppered betwixt and between.”
Warner wiggled his fingers in the air as if sprinkling a dash of something onto something else before he took a long drag. He held the air in his lungs until the buzz of the tobacco made his head tingle. Then he exhaled. Another flick of the ash. Warner glanced over at Blessing then nudged him on the arm.
“I mean to say, that sunrise yonder, it has such promise,” he said. “It makes me smile, but in a good way. Everything’s on the way up. But by noon, it’s all downhill. The sun drops, it gets dark, we go to work, and my smile’s not so genuine anymore. The only hope I got by the time my head hits the pillow is that the sun’s gonna rise the next day.”
Blessing grunted. Then he chuckled. He lowered his left hand to his hip and rested it on a pistol he kept in a thigh holster. He tapped the side of the leather holster like he was playing a tune.
“What?” asked Warner, his eyes widening. He knew that chuckle and nudged the man again.
Blessing sniffed a wad of snot into his throat and then hawked a loogie into the dirt in front of his boots. It bubbled there on the arcing line for a second before Blessing turned to Warner and shook his head. “You’re full of crap,” he said. “You say the same thing every morning. I don’t know who you’re trying to convince. Me? Yourself? I don’t know. I do know you’re full of crap.”
Warner eyed Blessing seriously for a beat, considering the marksman’s assessment of his rambling. Without saying anything, he turned away from him and watched the sunrise turn from red to orange. Pinching the cigarette in his fingers, he took a final draw and flicked the butt out into the dirt. Dying wisps of smoke traced the butt’s path to its resting place.
“You don’t say much,” he said, speaking as he exhaled, “but when you do, it’s a humdinger.”
The two men exchanged smiles. They laughed. And then they got down to business.
“You checked on ’em?” Warner asked Blessing, motioning toward the rows of barred windows that decorated all four sides of the building’s facade on its second and third floors.
Blessing nodded and scratched the scruff on his chin.
“We did luck into this place,” said Warner. “Perfect spot for keeping people where you want ’em until you don’t want ’em there no more.”
He pushed himself from his lean against the wall and took a couple of deliberate steps away from it. The sunrise was slipping from orange to yellow. The deep blue that framed it was fading. Another day was already on its way toward night.
Warner turned his back on the sun and eyed the building. The only entrance on the front side was a single door that sat under a crumbling wood awning that covered the six-by-six square of concrete serving as a stoop. It was five steps off the ground.
On the first floor, that brick painted white, were five regular-sized windows covered with bars. To say the paint was white was an overstatement. It had been white once. Now it was closer to yellow than white, maybe even gray. Bits of the underlying brick’s true color pinked and clayed their way through the thinning, weatherworn paint job.
Warner stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and surveyed the upper levels of the Bowie County Jail. They were red because there was no paint. The brick was a different color than that which showed through on the first floor, and it was different still from the burnt-colored bricks that wrapped the top of the rectangular building.
“Whoever built this thing lacked imagination,” said Warner. “Four walls, three stories high, a door on each side, don’t make much for architectural genius. But I like it. Makes it easy to keep an eye on, that’s for sure.
“How many we got up there now?” asked Warner. “Six?”
Blessing nodded. He toed the dirt with his boot, mixing in the spit.
“Six pregnant women and six kids,” said Warner. “I don’t guess any of ’em are ready to pop. But that one we got a month ago? The one who speaks Spanish to her kid? She’s getting close. Much bigger and the baby’s gonna punch its way out straight through the belly button.”
Blessing smirked. He rolled his shoulders forward and brought up his fists like a prizefighter. A couple of jabs and an uppercut later, both men were laughing.
“I ain’t about having a baby birthed in my jail,” said Warner. “Seeing as how we got six already, we could probably make a run. Don’t you think?”
Blessing was shadowboxing his image on the wall of the former jail. His speed was impressive. Even in boots, the man was light on his feet. Warner wondered if Blessing had ever been in a street fight, then dismissed the notion. Of course he’d been in a street fight. Blessing had definitely killed men with his bare hands.
“Blessing,” said Warner, “you think we could make a run?”
Blessing thrust a final jab and nodded.
“Let’s get ready, then,” said Warner. “The day’s a-wastin’.”
Blessing rubbed his chin, scratching the growth that ran along his jawline and down his neck. Without looking at Warner or saying anything, he plodded up the steps on the stoop and pushed his way inside the jail.
Warner followed. The heat draped over him like a heavy blanket as soon as he stepped inside. The jail, or what was left of it, didn’t have power. The water, which leaked more than flowed, dripped from rusty pipes, making it both brown and undrinkable. The place made a third-world prison look like the Ritz. Although Warner hadn’t been in either of those places, he’d seen pictures of both.
He gripped the metal handrail to a set of narrow stairs that led him straight to the second level. The chipped paint stuck to his sweating palms as he ascended the creaking stairs. Dust from Blessing’s boots kicked in small puffs of brown at his face, and he closed his eyes until they reached the landing.
Blessing led Warner along a hallway that stretched from one side of the level to the next. All along the exterior wall to their left were cells encased in iron bars. Warner ran his fingers along the bars, clanking with each successive thump as he moved his way toward the end of the hallway.
Each of the cells was the same. Iron bunks hung from the walls; chains bolted into the brick held the beds mostly parallel to the concrete floors. Thin, life-stained mattresses covered the mesh frames of the bunks, no pillows or sheets. Opposite the bunks was a sink and toilet. Though neither were in working order, that didn’t stop them from getting used.
The combination of heat, which was more suffocating on the second floor, and the stench of unwashed humans made Warner wrinkle his nose and take shallower breaths. Avoiding eye contact with the people inside the cells, he kept his watering eyes straight ahead until he reached Blessing at the last of them, where the hallway ended. Hanging on the wall was a series of hooks. Each of the hooks held pairs of iron cuffs. Blessing grabbed a pair by the chain connecting them and draped it over his shoulder. He motioned for Warner to do the same. Warner held the pair in his hands.
Blessing fished a large skeleton key from his pocket and, holding the bow between his fingers, slid the bit into the lock at the center of the barred door. The lock clicked, and the door creaked and whined when he pulled it open into the hallway.
Andrea Cruz stared back at them from the bottom bunk. Her eyes sunken, her hair matted with sweat, her skin pale, she was lying there with one foot on the floor. Her thin shirt was pulled up beneath her bosom, exposing her swollen belly.
Her child, Javier, was on the top bunk. He was shirtless and sitting cross-legged, facing the brick wall. His little fingers traced the maze of mortar between the
red blocks. The boy seemed unaware the door was open and they had visitors.
“Hey there, Javi,” Warner said with a wide smile. “How’s it hanging?”
Andrea didn’t move, but she scowled. Her voice was raspy, weaker than it was the last time Warner paid her a visit. “Don’t talk to him. Don’t say his name. Don’t even look at him.”
Javi looked at Warner, wide-eyed, his finger still touching the wall. There was hope in those eyes. It was something Warner wasn’t used to seeing in the people with whom he came in contact. It surprised him, shook him from his game for a moment. He quickly recovered and winked at the boy, smiling from the corner of his mouth, before shifting his eyes to Andrea.
Warner stepped inside the cell, clanging the cuffs together. The ring bounced off the solid walls, echoing in the cell. When he reached the side of the bunk, he squatted, resting his butt on his boot heels. He lifted his chin toward the belly.
“You any closer to a name? I could make a few suggestions,” he offered.
Andrea tugged at her shirt, lowering it over her belly as far as it would stretch. She scooted back onto her elbows and closer to the wall, angling herself away from Warner.
“Sarah’s nice,” he said. “Rachel’s good. Both are solid names. Go way back.”
Warner held the cuffs at his knees, rubbing the coarse iron with his calloused thumbs. He widened his eyes. “Ooh,” he said and clapped the cuffs together. The sudden noise made Andrea jump. Her body shuddered and her scowl deepened. Her eyes flitted between Warner and Blessing, who stayed at the door. “I know the perfect name,” he said. “You could call her Warner. It’s a little masculine, I know, but sometimes people get into these, what do they call it?”
Warner grimaced as he searched for the word. Glancing over, he sought help from Blessing. The man shrugged and offered nothing. Then it hit him. “Unisex, that’s it. They could be for boys or girls. Given these trying times, I’d think a strong name like Warner would benefit any hearty soul, be they boy or girl.”