by Tom Abrahams
Warner put his hand to his chest, half turning his body toward her and almost walking backward to keep his gaze on her. “See, I’m a businessman. That’s what I do. I see a need, I fill it. Pure and simple. People need babies. Well, not all people. You don’t need babies. You got one. Javier’s a fine young man. Strapping even.”
It took everything in her not to punch him in the throat, to cut out his tongue for having said her son’s name aloud. He didn’t deserve the privilege. Andrea kept walking. Her ankles must be bleeding now. Something warm and wet was squishing underneath her foot inside her shoe.
“You’ve had your allotment,” he said. “But some people, good people, can’t have babies. More precisely, they can’t have a baby.” He held up his index finger. “One baby. Not a single baby, let alone two or three.”
Andrea cupped her free hand under her belly. The life inside her kicked. A soft thump to remind her of what was coming, that any day now those kicks would be against the air. Those perfect feet, soft and pink, new to the world beyond that inside her womb. It made her want to puke. She wasn’t ready. Not like this.
“I’m just seizing an opportunity here, Andrea.” Warner raised his hands and made air quotes with his index and middle fingers. “See, the government, as they like to call themselves, and their Pop Guard”—more air quotes—“use the drought as an excuse for their one family, one child dictate.”
Warner spoke with his hands. His cadence sped up. He was into this. Excited by it. He was telling his story to someone who had to listen to him. She was, in every sense, a captive audience.
“The Scourge killed off more than enough folks to compensate for our lack of food and water now,” he said. “Sheesh, what was it? Two-thirds of the world gone?” Warner snapped his fingers. “Like that. Two of every three people, vanished.”
Andrea had been a child when the Scourge took her father and her older sister. Her mother lived for four years. She’d gotten a job with the Cartel to provide shelter and protection for the two of them. One day she hadn’t come home from work. It was an entire week before Andrea left the house, waiting for her mother to return.
Bad things happened then. Flashes of those things still haunted her, gave her nightmares, made her fiercely protective of her own child. The boy didn’t have a father. Neither of the children did. It made her two parents in one. It gave her resolve. She would do anything to stay together, to prevent Javier from living a life as she had. She would do anything to rescue the unplanned life growing within her. Pain bred strength. As much as she’d endured, Andrea was made of steel.
“So,” said Warner, snapping her from the brief reverie, “there’s plenty of food and water. Even if there ain’t much. The real thing is power.” Warner shook his finger didactically and winked. “Power. That’s what it’s about. The government saw what happened to every other group that tried to control things after the Scourge. They were outnumbered or spread too thin and lost control. These folks, the ones on the throne now, they ain’t about to let that happen.”
Andrea uncapped the canteen strapped across her body and took a sip of the warm, metallic-tasting water. She offered some to Javier with the warning to drink slowly.
“They want your children so their power can grow,” he said. “There’s no real shortage. It ain’t like that as far as I can tell. Yeah, things are tough, sure. But limiting births like they did in China back in the last century? They ain’t gotta do that.”
Andrea took the canteen from Javier and recapped it. She slung its strap over her head and adjusted it at her side.
“They take your kids to indoctrinate them,” said Warner. “That the right word? Indoctrinate?” He repeated the word, trying different inflections, testing it. “Indoctrinate? I got it, Blessing?”
Blessing, who was up ahead with the front of the line, glanced back and nodded.
“Yeah,” said Warner. “They want to make your kids think like them. As they grow, their numbers grow. Their power grows. They control everyone and everything. It’s smart, if you think about it.”
Andrea thought about the man who’d fathered Javier. Although his name escaped her, his brutality didn’t. That was impossible to forget. For the longest time, she’d thought him the most barbaric, heartless human on the Earth. He placed second behind the man next to her.
“Sure, the government don’t mess with some of the tribes that run scot-free around the cities,” said Warner. “But those people, those savages, ain’t about to take on a government yet. For now, they’re happier than pigs in—”
“I get it,” said Andrea, giving in to the temptation to shut him up.
She couldn’t take it anymore. His droning on and on, pontificating about his plans like the evil villain from some twentieth-century spy thriller she’d once seen projected on the wall of a bar in Abilene.
Her voice was sharp, exasperated. “You’re a businessman,” she said. “This is business. It’s not personal. You’re going to sell us to the government. The government will take my children. They’ll put me to work or worse. You’ll get your cash or your booze, or however they pay you, and then you’ll prey on someone else. I know how it works.”
She expected him to tell her she was right, that she was too smart for her own good, and that it was best to keep her thoughts to herself. Thinking aloud wasn’t good for anyone, she expected him to tell her.
Warner didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he whistled. It was a long sweet whistle that somehow was melodically condescending. The sustained, shifting pitch of it told her, without Warner having to say a word, that she was wrong.
Am I? How could I be wrong?
That was what the vigilantes did. That was what she’d heard. If they caught you, they sold you to the Pop Guard.
“Hey, Blessing,” Warner said playfully. “Buddy, come back here.”
Blessing stopped in place. He stood there on the pitted asphalt of the two-lane state highway and waited for the line to pass, for Warner, Andrea, and Javier to catch up to him. When they did, Blessing took steps to keep pace. Turning toward Warner as they walked, he raised an eyebrow.
Warner aimed a thumb at Andrea and chuckled. “You know what our little friend said? It’s good. You’re gonna laugh.”
Blessing lowered the eyebrow. His expression flattened and he turned his attention toward the road ahead. He couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he’d lain down and closed his eyes.
Oblivious, Warner grinned, the smile stretching across his face, his black eyes glinting with humor. “She thinks we’re selling her to the government, to the Pop Guard,” he said. “That’s cute, ain’t it?”
Blessing marched forward. His expression unchanged, like he hadn’t registered what Warner said, he shifted his attention to Andrea. They locked eyes until it was uncomfortable and she looked away.
“Nothing cute about it,” said Blessing. His voice was monotone, robotic almost. But it carried weight, electricity. “Your sense of humor is lacking.”
That only made Warner’s grin broaden. The man beamed. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he put the cap back on his head and adjusted it until the brim was just so at his forehead. “You don’t say nothing for hours or days on end. When you do, you’re a critic. Figures. Reminds me of that old joke about the monk.”
Blessing rolled his eyes. Andrea figured he had heard the joke before, but was playing along.
The joke was a cruelty, she understood. It was meant to delay telling her what his intentions truly were. If he wasn’t selling her to the government, what was he doing? Where was he marching all of these women and their children?
“This man decides to join a monastery,” Warner said. “He’s had it with the world. His family died in the Scourge, and he can’t take fending for himself anymore. So he climbs up this mountain and reaches the top.”
A tug on the chain between Andrea’s feet interrupted her stride. She hitched, but the slack returned and she moved forward a step
at a time. Her mind raced about where it was they were going.
Dallas? It isn’t Dallas, is it? Please don’t be Dallas.
“When he gets to the top, he meets the head monk. The monk tells him he can join the order, but he’s got to take a vow of silence. He can only say two words every five years when he goes before the council of monks.”
There was a tug against Andrea’s ankles. The cuffs dug into the front of her legs. She tried looking back, but the tug of the woman in front of her prevented it. Andrea kept shuffling.
“After five years, the man goes before the council,” says Warner, as if he’s got a rapt audience. “They ask him if he has anything to say. He does. He tells them, ‘Bed hard.’ That’s all he says and he goes back to praying or whatever.”
A sharp pain dug into Andrea’s shins. She tottered forward at the tug, stopping her momentum. A shrill cry came from the back of the line. Warner ignored it and kept walking, talking.
“After another five years, same thing. He gets to the council. He says, ‘Food bad.’”
The line stopped. None of the women or their children were moving now. Blessing’s attention had shifted from Warner to whatever was happening at the end of the chain. He craned his neck to focus. The cry had become a moan.
“The man goes back another five years later,” Warner said, finishing his joke with the relish of a man who couldn’t wait to share the punch line, raising his voice to be heard over the pained wail of a woman in agony. “It’s been fifteen years now, and he’s said four words. The council asks him to speak. He tells them, ‘I quit.’ The head monk laughs at him and says, ‘I ain’t surprised. You been complaining since you got here.’”
Warner snorted a laugh. His Adam’s apple slid up and down along his throat. Andrea wanted to slam her palm into it. She was close enough. She could do it. Catch him off guard and inflict a little pain on this sadist who trafficked people’s lives.
She let her anger give way to worry and managed to maneuver her body enough to see the commotion behind her. The moan had given way to heavy breathing and grunts.
It was a familiar pattern of sounds now. While Warner ignored it, Blessing made his way toward the end of the chain. Andrea recognized what was happening.
The woman was in labor. She was about to give birth right here on Texas Highway 98, a few miles south of a prison, and north of whatever hell awaited them.
CHAPTER 12
APRIL 17, 2054, 10:45 PM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
GREENSBORO, NORTH CAROLINA
Marcus rubbed his eyes and tilted his hat back on his head. He yawned and leaned his head against the window, vibrating from the train’s coarse movement on the tracks. The vibration was in his bones.
“Can’t sleep?” asked Dallas.
“Nope,” Marcus replied.
Dallas was fidgeting, twiddling his thumbs, staring out the window. It was dark outside. His reflection looked back at him in the dim light of the train car.
Marcus had paid for a private cabin on the train. It wasn’t much more than the cheap seats, and it gave them more privacy.
Dallas warned it made them more of a target for the bandits, should they pick this train to rob. He hoped that because it was a late train, they might skip it. Bandits had to sleep too.
Marcus told Dallas it was better to have the privacy. They could have their weapons out and would be ready for whatever came their way.
The train reached a curve in the tracks. The wheels screeched as they leaned into the rails, and Marcus felt his body shifting with the momentum.
“I wish you’d brought Lou with you,” said Marcus. “Would have saved us a lot of trouble.”
Dallas frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We’re going south to go north again,” said Marcus. “It’s a huge waste of time. You could have brought her and the kid with you. Then we could have made a much shorter trip to wherever it is this Garden of Eden’s supposedly—”
“We couldn’t do that,” said Dallas. He leaned forward in his seat, planting his elbows on his knees and using his hands to accentuate his words. “No way we could do that.”
“Why not?”
“Too dangerous,” said Dallas. “The two of us, David, by ourselves? No way we could get to the rendezvous point without help. Did you see the scanners they were using when we boarded the train?”
Marcus had seen them. Every child held their hand up to a scanner when they boarded. He’d seen the scanner buzz one kid, and the family was pulled from the boarding queue. The mother had protested and tried to run. She didn’t get far.
“I saw it,” said Marcus. “Biochips, right?”
Dallas nodded. “Yep. When you have a kid, the hospital or doctor embeds a chip in the back of the baby’s hand. The parents get a chip too, and the chips all match.”
“What if they don’t have the baby at a hospital?”
“You go find somewhere to get it done,” said Dallas.
“And if you don’t?”
“If you don’t have one or if it doesn’t match, they take the kid. That’s how they know if you have more than one kid. That’s what stops families from splitting to escape. If they find a pregnant woman with a chip, they know she’s had a kid. And she can’t take the chip out. Leaves a nasty scar on the back of the hand.”
“Can’t you fake it?” asked Marcus. “Isn’t there a black market?”
Despite him and Marcus being the only two in the compartment, Dallas looked around with paranoid, wide eyes and lowered his voice. “The government’s always changing the chips,” he said. “People try. They always get caught. Always.”
Marcus frowned in a way that expressed understanding. He nodded slowly.
“See?” asked Dallas. “There was no way she could come. David neither.”
“Then you should have sent me a letter,” said Marcus. “Would have cost me half as much for the train, and it’s a lot easier to move around as a loner. Would’ve saved you money too. Plus you wouldn’t have left your very pregnant wife alone. Still can’t believe that, Dallas.”
Dallas looked away from Marcus. “No such thing as very pregnant. And you wouldn’t have answered the letter.”
Marcus nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“About pregnancy or you ignoring the letter?”
“Both,” said Marcus. “Still, this seems like a stupid way to go about it. There had to be an easier way.”
Dallas sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Maybe. But we’re pretty desperate. We ran through a thousand different plans before settling on this one. Believe me, I didn’t want to do this.”
The train rumbled around another curve. Marcus felt the inertia tug at his body. He pressed his hands flat on the seat to keep himself in place. There was a knock on the door to their cabin.
“Who is it?” Marcus asked. His hand moved to the Mossberg shotgun on the seat next to him. His eyes were on the solid sliding door that separated their cabin from the train’s narrow corridor.
“Porter,” said the voice on the other side of the door. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
Marcus turned to Dallas and lowered his voice. “They have food?”
Dallas shrugged.
Marcus raised his voice. “No, thanks. We’re good.”
“Okay then,” said the porter.
Releasing his grip on the shotgun, Marcus motioned to it. “I’m surprised they let us bring these on the train no questions asked. Back in the day, there was no way you’d get a weapon on a train.”
“I don’t think they care,” said Dallas. “Like I said, I kinda think the government likes the violence. Plus, we’re paying customers, so…”
“Doesn’t make a lot of sense,” said Marcus. “Then again, nothing does anymore. Nothing has made sense for a long time.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, the jostle of the train filling the space between them. It was loud. Occasionally a tree branch would s
crape the window as the train rushed by it. The high-pitched sound made Dallas jump every time.
Marcus reached for his shotgun, slid it over, and laid it on his lap. The butt was against the exterior wall of the train, the barrel aimed at the door.
“Thank you,” said Dallas.
“For what?”
“Doing this.”
Marcus chuckled. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” said Marcus, “I do. You’re welcome.”
Laughter from the cabin adjacent to them filtered into their space. It was mixed company. At least one woman and a couple of men, Marcus thought. There were three distinct voices, laughs. Maybe more.
“Can I ask you something?” asked Dallas.
“Can I stop you?”
“Why did you ignore us?”
“Ignore you?”
“Why did you leave?” said Dallas. “Then stop writing, stop responding? It hurt Lou, you know.”
Marcus sank in his seat. He adjusted the plant of his boots on the cabin’s floor. He took a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaled through a frown. “This again?”
“You never really answered me,” said Dallas. “Well, you did. But you didn’t.”
Another burst of laughter came from the cabin next to them. There were two women. Marcus could distinctly hear four voices. It was louder this time, the kind of laughter that came from drinking alcohol. Now he’d never get any sleep.
The train jerked to one side. Then it corrected and shimmied to the other.
“I’m no good, Dallas,” said Marcus. “That’s the beginning and end of it. I’m no good to myself, no good to anyone else.”
“Need help with that cross?”
“What?”
“You’re being a martyr,” said Dallas. “I’m not asking to hear your self-loathing, woe-is-me crap, Marcus. I want to know the truth.”
Dallas’s tone surprised Marcus. The kid sounded like a man.
“All right,” said Marcus. “Truth, then.”
“Yep.”
“I left because I wasn’t wanted anymore. That’s not self-loathing. I’m not playing the martyr. It’s the honest truth.”