by Tom Abrahams
It was hard enough, as she’d proven within the last week, to transport a much smaller passenger load. What was Gladys thinking?
Sally stood there, stunned. Her stomach churned and tightened into a cramp before a surge of hot acid raced up her throat. She gagged and swallowed it before it reached her mouth. She didn’t want to do this. Her gut, upset as it was, told her not to do this. But she was committed. Wasn’t she? There was no time to think. Not now that they were here. Not now that Gladys was hustling them toward their transportation. Not now.
In the words of so many people in and out of her life over the years, she thought, It is what it is. She’d always hated that saying. It defined a sense of destiny or fate beyond self-determination. And while it was true that Sally regularly believed the cosmos was out to get her, she always rationalized that others had it worse. She had a roof over her head, she had a job that made a difference, and she controlled her own fate. If she wanted to alternate stupors and hangovers to get through her life, that was her decision. Nobody made that choice for her.
The irony of it, perhaps, was that as she forced herself to march along the hallway toward the kitchen, this was not really her choice. She’d joined the railroad to make her own choices, to help others make their own choices for their families, and here it was taking that away from her. What was worse, she’d let them do it.
Sally swallowed again. The sour aftertaste of bile stung her throat. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. A chill ran along her spine and radiated outward. Perspiration formed on her brow. She wiped her sweaty palms on her shirt and exhaled, not realizing until she did that she’d been holding her breath. Her heart was racing as she stepped into the kitchen. For the first time, she got a clear look at her passengers. Gladys began to introduce them. She spoke with the rhythm of a child anxious to tell an absent parent about her day. Sally hadn’t seen Gladys so agitated. The woman pointed at the oldest in the group.
“This is Marcus,” she said. “Is that right?”
It surprised Sally that Gladys would use their names. That wasn’t part of the protocol. No names, no addresses, no backstories. That way everything was compartmentalized. If anyone was caught and interrogated, there wasn’t anything they could reveal that might compromise the railroad, its conductors, or any of its leadership. Maybe none of that mattered since this was her last mission. She was their last conductor. Gladys had made that clear when she’d revealed to her the ways in which they would get out of Atlanta and north and east toward the Harbor.
The old man, with his pain expression and leathered face, rubbed his chin. He took off his black cowboy hat and ran his hand across the top of his head. His short-cropped hair was more white than dark. He had age spots at the temples and in front of his receding hairline. He seemed to hesitate too, as if he understood the typical anonymity of the railroad and its participants.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Marcus. This is Dallas, Lou, their kids, Andrea, and her kids.”
Even before he said their names and referenced them individually, Sally recognized they weren’t two couples, as she’d originally thought. Marcus looked more like a grandfather than a dad. He clearly wasn’t with Andrea. She stood on the opposite side of the group. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone but her son. He was gripping her side and she was quietly reassuring him.
The way Dallas stood protectively next to Lou made it obvious they were together, and their son was between them. He was the spitting image of his father but with his mother’s olive complexion.
“I’m…” Sally hedged and swallowed. Then she figured it didn’t matter. “I’m Sally. I’m your conductor.”
The old man smiled. The deep creases on his face, which reminded Sally of the perpetual ones on Gladys’s dresses, stretched. He had a kind face, an honest face. But his eyes…his eyes told Sally something different than did his smile.
There was wisdom in those eyes, yet it wasn’t the kind of wisdom that came exclusively from experience. It came from pain. It came from loss. It came from guilt.
Sally recognized the pain, the loss, and the guilt in Marcus’s eyes because it was so familiar to her. She saw it whenever she looked in the mirror.
“We know each other, don’t we?” Marcus said. “I recognize you.”
Sally didn’t know him. Then she saw Gladys smile and realized the question wasn’t for her.
“We do,” Gladys said. “It’s been a little while, but yes. My sister and I lived with you in Baird. Well, we lived on the same property as Norma and Rudy.”
A flash of recognition brightened Lou’s face. She pointed at Gladys and shook her finger. “I remember you,” she said. “I knew I knew you, I just couldn’t place it. You and your sister used to join us for dinner. You did chores around their house.”
Gladys nodded. “Marcus and Rudy, and you, Lou, rescued us from the Llano River Clan.”
Sally’s head was spinning. These people knew Gladys? They lived with her?
“It has been a while,” said Marcus. “And your sister?”
Marcus searched the room as if the woman might magically appear, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
Gladys shook her head and lowered her chin. “It’s just me,” she said. “And my railroad.”
“Well,” said Lou, “it’s good to see you again. This time you’re rescuing us.”
“I hope so,” said Gladys. “That’s the plan.”
“You’ve got a plan, right?” asked Marcus. “I’m assuming we need to move along? We’re not standing here because you’re about to offer us a late-night snack, are we?”
Sally wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Gladys. It could have been either of them or both. Sally answered. These people were her charge now. They were her passengers. And as much as she had no power, she was in control.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, we have a plan.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. He was either doubting her or asking for details.
“What is it, then?” Lou asked. She held a bundle close to her neck and was swaying, rocking her child. Her tone was harsh and definitely edged toward doubting.
“We have a truck waiting,” said Sally. “It’s stocked up, ready to go.”
“Is there fuel?” asked Marcus.
“Plenty,” said Sally. “Enough to get us where we’re going.”
“Where exactly are we going?” asked Lou. “We’ve traveled pretty far already. Almost all of it was in the dark about what’s next.”
Gladys clapped her hands together, a party host looking to play mediator. She chuckled nervously. “All in due time,” she said. “Right now our focus needs to be on getting you—”
There was a loud banging noise coming from the front of the house. Someone pounding on the front door. Everyone looked at Gladys, then at Sally, then toward the hallway that led to the entry.
“Are you expecting someone else?” asked Marcus.
Gladys’s brow furrowed and she shook her head. The jackhammer fist heel on the door pounded. Again. And again.
“We need to go,” said Sally.
“What if it’s the last conductor?” asked Dallas. “What if he’s warning us about something?”
“Then we need to go now regardless,” said Marcus. He jutted his chin toward Sally. “Where to?”
Sally exchanged a knowing look with Gladys, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Then the conductor started back toward the door that led to the basement.
Another volley of heavy pounding reverberated. It sounded as if the door might explode from the hinges.
“You remember your way back?” asked Gladys.
“I’d better,” said Sally.
“I’ll hold off whoever it is. Don’t worry about me. And, Sally?”
The banging stopped.
“Yes?”
“You can do this.”
A knot thickened in Sally’s parched throat. She mouthed, “Thank you,” to Gladys and waved at the others to follow. They moved in a cluster. Only the mo
vement of feet shuffling along the floor, the brush of bodies against one another, the rhythm of their breathing made noise as they quickly headed down the stairs.
Sally stood at the door, waiting for the last of them to pass, shut the door behind her, and descended into the dark basement, hoping she could recall where exactly she needed to go.
CHAPTER 23
APRIL 21, 2054, 9:10 PM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
“They’re in there,” Rickshaw growled. “I know they’re in there.” He pounded on the door again. The heel of his fist hurt, each knock vibrating through his hand and up his wrist.
Krespan stood behind him on the stoop. The others were at the bottom of the stoop, on the sidewalk in front of the brownstone.
“Krespan, you saw what I saw, right? A bunch of people, at least one with an infant, run inside this place? It was this place, right?” He jabbed his finger at the door. He wanted to put his fist through it.
“Yes, sir,” said Krespan. “I saw them. Six in all, sir. There were definitely four adults. Two of them were children.”
Rickshaw turned back to the door. “That’s what I thought.”
He raised his fist to bang again when the sounds of locks clicking on metal stopped him. The door cracked, a metal chain stretched taut between the door and the frame. An older woman in a short-sleeved, ankle-length dress peered through the gap.
“Hello,” she said in a congenial voice. “May I help you?”
“Open the door,” said Rickshaw.
The woman grimaced. Rickshaw could tell she was feigning confusion.
“I’m sorry?” she said. “It’s very late and I’m tired. Your banging frightened me and—”
Rickshaw tuned her out. He could play the game. He could go back and forth with her for several minutes. He could have his team aim their weapons at her. He could break through the door. It was solid wood. But it wasn’t a single piece. There were four inlaid pieces of decorative wood at its center. They were weak points.
He wasn’t interested in playing games. He balled his hands into fists and flexed them. The knuckles cracked. He refocused on what she was saying.
“…was cooking a late dinner, and I think it’s best if you—”
With lightning speed and thunderous force, Rickshaw lowered his shoulder and drove it into the door at its open edge. It burst inward, the chain breaking away at the jamb. The woman flew backward, stumbling as Rickshaw’s momentum carried him into her.
He landed on top of her, and the force of his weight pressed the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping and wheezing. Rickshaw used her shoulders to push himself up into a plank position and planted the toes of his boots against the floor. He looked down at her. Her eyes were wide with shock and pain. She gasped like a fish suffocating beside its bowl.
He rolled off her and got up. His men were at the stoop. None of them had come into the house. The brass chain swung like a pendulum on the door. The jamb was splintered where the locking bar had ripped free.
“Get in here,” he snapped at his men. “Close the door. Pick up the woman.”
The men did as they were told. Two of the soldiers held up the woman underneath her arms. She was still gasping, her head hanging limply on her neck. Her dress was torn at the shoulder.
Rickshaw scanned his surroundings and pointed toward the parlor. “Take her in there,” he said. “Krespan, you come with me.”
Rickshaw spun away from the woman, believing it would be a few minutes before she could answer any questions. He needed to find the others—four adults, two children, two infants.
“You check all the doors. Open them one by one. If they don’t open with a turn of the handle, figure out an alternative. Those people couldn’t have gotten far. Find them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Krespan. The soldier saluted him and checked a door right next to them. It was a coat closet.
Rickshaw marched toward the kitchen at the end of the hallway. The room was too clean to be a kitchen. And at the same time it was too dirty.
There was no grease on the stove, no fingerprints or smudges on the stainless steel. There was no evidence the lady of the house was cooking dinner. But there was dust everywhere. A thin layer coated everything in the room. Everything except where it was recently swiped clean along the edges of the engineered stone countertop at the center of the kitchen. Then he looked at the floor. There were boot prints. Not so much prints, really, as they were the remnants of dirt that shook loose from soles in the partial imprints of boot treads. There were people here. No doubt.
Rickshaw spun around like he’d missed the people by a fraction of a second, like they were standing behind him, snickering at his lack of situational awareness. His body tensed and he stomped through the kitchen, blindly searching the large rooms of the first floor.
He bounded up the stairs, clearing empty room after empty room. The rooms weren’t only empty of people, they were absent furnishings and light fixtures. The only decorations at all, aside from peeling wallpaper or chipped paint, were the same doily sheers that blocked the sidelights next to the front door to the house. They hung in front of the windows to each of the rooms, pulled closed.
The rooms themselves were stuffy, the air dusty. He could taste it in his mouth even as he breathed through his nose. Nobody lived here.
He holstered his pistol and raced down the stairs to the parlor. The woman was sitting in an oversized chair, two guards flanking her. The other two were at the entry to the parlor, standing watch.
Rickshaw snapped at both of them, “What are you doing?”
The guards looked at him, puzzled. Neither of them responded quickly enough.
“Go help Krespan,” Rickshaw barked. “You’re doing nobody any good standing here. Like we need four armed men watching this woman. Use your heads.”
The men ducked their chins like scolded dogs and hustled from their posts. Rickshaw twisted his neck from side to side. Small pops of air crackled as he took in a deep, calming breath. He adjusted his duster and eyed the woman, stepping confidently toward her and effecting a broad, cheerful smile intended to be as intimidating as it was anything else.
“Hello,” he said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Captain Greg Rickshaw with the government’s Population Guard.”
Rickshaw held eye contact as he sat down on the sofa across from her chair. He flipped the duster back and sank into the soft, worn cushion. Using his palms, he pushed himself onto the firm edge of the cushion, relying on the furniture’s frame for support. The woman’s nose was bloodied. There were smudges of it on her upper lip and chin, a spatter of it on the front of her dress. She sat stone-faced with her hands clasped in her lap.
“And you are?” he prompted.
The woman said nothing. One thumb ran across the other. Her legs were crossed at her ankles.
Rickshaw put a hand to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “I didn’t mean to injure you. That was an unfortunate by-product of my forced entry. Collateral damage. It happens.”
The woman’s lip twitched. She separated her hands and used her fingers to press flat her dress. Her eyes never left his.
Rickshaw sighed. “Where are they?” he asked, searching the woman’s face for any reaction, however small.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Who?”
“I know they were here,” he said. “I know you said you’re cooking dinner or whatever, but they were in the kitchen. Now they’re gone. Where are they?”
Her eyebrows relaxed and her mouth flattened into a straight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rickshaw frowned. “That’s a shame.” He stood, flipped aside the long tail of his duster, and unsnapped his holster.
Her eyes fell to his hand on the revolver. He watched her as he moved around the table between them. Then he motioned to his guards.
“Grab her hands,” he said. “Hold one flat on the table.�
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He twirled the gun in his hand. The woman struggled against the two much stronger men. Her placid expression tightened; her face squeezed with worry. She grunted protest and balled her fists. Her body stiffened; the tendons in her neck strained.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she said, resisting. Her back arched. The nostrils of her bloody nose flared.
The men restrained her nonetheless. One held her at the neck, pushing her forward. The other held her wrist at the table. She struggled against their force. It was futile.
Rickshaw checked the cylinder and spun it. Then he reached down and pressed the barrel against the back of her fist. “Where are they?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, the woman struggled and fought against her captors.
Rickshaw shrugged. “Okay then.” He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped. Click.
The woman relaxed for a brief moment and tensed again. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t let this interrogation take its course over the hours he’d usually employ at headquarters. There was urgency here. Every second that passed meant the people, the infants, were getting farther and farther away.
This woman, who he assumed was Gladys, could help him derail the underground operation bent at undoing his good works. However, that could wait.
“Where are they?” he asked again with the same intonation, soft, assured, deliberate.
The woman gritted her teeth. Her nose started bleeding again.
Rickshaw pressed harder into the back of her hand, blanching the skin white. He pulled the trigger. Click.
The woman let out a spit-laden breath. Her body relaxed for an instant before she tried to free herself again. It struck Rickshaw as odd that she’d keep struggling. Even if she managed to free herself from the two guards, where would she go? What would she do?
The human mind was an amazing creation. It worked in ways Rickshaw had only begun to understand. He did know a lot about the inducement of fear and how it forced people to do things, to say things, to react in ways a rational person would not.
“Where are they? If you—”