by Tom Abrahams
“A boy?” asked Norma. She took the child in her arms and pulled him to her chest. She picked back the folds of fabric to look at his face. Her eyes welled. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “He looks like Dallas.”
Lou nudged Norma with her elbow. “You’re saying my husband is beautiful?”
Norma chuckled. She was so full right now, she wondered if her heart might explode with joy.
She lifted the baby toward her face and inhaled the sweet aroma of a newborn. Babies always smelled so good. “He smells like David did. I love that smell.”
David smiled proudly. He got onto his knees and leaned over his little brother. Then he took his finger and tickled the baby’s nose.
The infant opened his eyes, squinting. He blinked and pursed his lips.
Norma looked at Rudy. “You want to hold him?”
Rudy begged off. “I might break him.”
“His name is Rudy,” said Lou.
Rudy’s chin quivered, his eyes dancing back and forth between Lou and the child.
“Rudy?” he repeated. His voice squeaked.
Lou smiled.
“David was taken,” said the boy.
They all laughed.
Norma’s attention shifted to the raft. It had nearly reached the Stella. “Dallas okay?”
Lou nodded. Her eyes glossed and she blinked away tears.
Norma didn’t want to ask about Marcus. She knew he was wounded. That much had been relayed to the Harbor. There was also a Pop Guard soldier who’d flipped and was helping them.
She took a deep breath of the briny air and forced a smile, turning to the stranger. “Andrea, is it?”
The woman nodded. She was trying to nurse. The baby was struggling to latch onto her.
“And your handsome young son?”
The baby managed to catch. Its cheeks sucked inward. Andrea winced and repositioned herself to better accommodate the nursing child and her own comfort. “Javier,” she said. “We call him Javi.”
Norma sensed the hint of accent in her voice. She spoke to her in Spanish, asking her about her travels, her health, her situation. Although hesitant at first, Andrea gradually relaxed and answered the questions Norma asked, plus some she didn’t.
The raft was on its way back, its bow pitching up and down in the surf.
Lou got to her feet. She nodded at the raft as it rode across the break and entered the calmer roll of surf at the shore’s edge. “I’m going to get Dallas.”
Lou walked the beach toward the water. Sprays of sand kicked up from her bare heels as she moved away. The farther she got, the more she looked like the girl Norma had met so many years ago.
The raft came ashore and two men got out. Lou waded into the water to help one of them. She hugged him, merging her body with his.
Norma knew the other man wasn’t Marcus, but she held out hope until his features came into focus as he climbed the beach.
He wore a Pop Guard uniform. His left arm was in a sling, his hand hanging limply from the edge of the cradle that held his arm against his body. He lumbered more than walked, resignation in his steps.
The raft headed back toward the Stella. Again the man worked the oars together, pulling against the surf to reach the break.
“This is Krespan,” said Lou.
The guard stood with Lou and Dallas in front of the blankets. David, his mouth full of bread, jumped up and leg tackled his father. It was less than an hour since he’d seen him, but it had evidently been long enough.
Krespan waved sheepishly with his right hand and nodded a greeting. “I know I’m not the kind of person you’d expect to have here,” he said, “but I think I can help you. I know a lot about how they think, how they work their patrols. I mean, I did.”
“His captain is dead,” said Lou. “I killed him. But not before he tried to kill Krespan for questioning orders.”
Norma eyed the soldier. She held his gaze; he didn’t look away. His eyes were kind. There was sadness there, one she recognized in so many people who’d survived the various incarnations of the world post-Scourge. It was a sadness absent in the eyes of those bent on doing bad things.
“Why were you in the guard?” asked Norma.
Krespan’s face flushed and he looked away, his gaze falling to the sand and his feet.
Beyond him, Norma saw the raft at the Stella. It was almost there. Soon enough it would confirm what Norma feared was true but was afraid to ask. The longer she went without seeing Marcus’s lifeless body, the longer she could pretend he was alive.
She swallowed hard and listened to Krespan offer his explanation.
“I was doing the right thing,” he said. “I bought into the propaganda of it. It was a good job. In theory. But a couple of times in the field, it didn’t seem right. Like the reason we were given for our jobs wasn’t the real reason. I kept doing my job. I did the best I could, followed orders, but I listened. I had to pick the right moment to speak up. I guess I was a little late. I—”
“I get it,” said Norma. “It’s not easy to do what you did. If Lou says you belong here, you belong here.”
Krespan’s shoulders relaxed and his expression eased. He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“Get some water, some bread,” she said. “You can sit down over there.” She motioned toward an empty blanket. Krespan took her advice and found a seat on the sandy fabric, lay back, and stared at the sky.
Norma followed his gaze to the brush of white clouds moving ashore. The clouds were thicker the farther she got from the beach. Then she found the horizon and focused again on the Stella. A knot thickened in her throat.
Two men aboard the Stella were transferring something long from the boat to the raft. Was it a body? She couldn’t be sure. Her chest tightened again. This time it wasn’t from joy.
Norma got up from the blanket. The others talked, ate and drank, relaxed for the first time in days. She left them behind and stepped purposely toward the surf until she stood at the water’s edge. The cold salt water lapped at her ankles. The raft pushed off from the Stella, the man at the oars working to turn the small craft in the opposite direction and head toward shore. There was no other visible movement on the raft.
However, there was movement at the Stella. They were weighing anchor. One man worked the line, hand over hand, pulling it in the vessel while the other aboard rolled it neatly into wide loops.
The rope became something darker and heavier. A chain. He was pulling up a chain. Then the anchor. And the Stella was drifting again.
Norma felt as adrift. Her heart fluttered in her tight chest.
The raft moved closer to shore. Up and down, the raft pitched in the water. Foam thickened in the surf as it roiled across Norma’s legs. She tasted it on her lips and licked it in her mouth, confused as to how the seawater had found its way there. She hadn’t felt it splash.
It wasn’t seawater, she realized then. They were tears. She was crying. She was mourning.
The raft was close now. Close enough that she could make out the craft’s cargo. It was a body. A man was strapped to a board of some kind. He wasn’t moving except for the shift from the rock of the surf.
Norma took another step into the water, then another. Before she knew it, she was waist deep in the chilly water once more. Shells and rocks crunched beneath her feet, digging into her arches and poking her heels.
The raft drifted closer. Norma took another step, her feet sinking into the bed beneath the surf.
It was close enough now that she could see the face of the man on the board. She knew who he was before she saw him. Marcus Battle was strapped flat to the board. He was pale, his eyes closed, his mouth a flat line.
He looked so much older in death than he had in life. The gray at his temples and across his scalp glistened in the waves of sunlight bouncing off the surrounding water.
His wrinkles were deeper. They creased his face along the sides of his nose, at the edges of his eyes.
The clothes on his bod
y were tattered and bloodied. His arms were folded across his chest.
Norma’s vision blurred. Her legs felt heavy even in buoyant water. She wasn’t sure she could do this. Her breathing came in short, stuttering gasps.
The oarsman called out to her, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here. I need help getting him ashore. We can float him.”
She nodded her understanding. He rowed past her a couple of feet before hopping from the aft of the raft. He splashed into the water, the raft tipping from side to side. He moved around to the port side of the raft, opposite Norma. With his chin, he motioned toward the shore. She kept her eyes on him until she shifted her weight and stared at the shoreline. She couldn’t look at Marcus’s body. It was too much. Norma could barely step without losing her balance. On the shore, the others were on the blankets. None of them seemed moved by the watery procession toward land. Was it because they’d already accepted what Norma didn’t want to believe was true? Was it because none of them wanted to revisit what they’d experienced for the last two days? Perhaps they’d said their goodbyes, made peace in a way she wasn’t sure she could.
“You okay?” asked the oarsman. “We can go slower. There’s no rush.”
Of course there was no rush. They were carting a dead man.
“I’m fine,” she said. “We have to find a place to bury him. I was just thinking about that. I don’t know where we’re going to bury him.”
Norma wasn’t sure why she’d said that aloud. So many things were dancing around in her head, competing for space, it was that little thing that leaked out. His burial.
There wasn’t a place for burials in the Harbor. Not yet. Norma’s mind started to wander again, when a raspy voice surprised her.
“Bury me?”
Norma stumbled against the grit on the seabed. She gripped the side of the raft and steadied herself. Lifting herself up to her feet, she saw Marcus’s eyes were open. Barely, but they were open.
Norma coughed out a laugh and then a cry. She reached for him, her fingers gripping a fistful of his shirt. “You’re alive?” she managed. “Alive?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “Disappointed?”
Norma shook her head. She almost climbed into the raft as the oarsmen steadied it. She threw her arms around Marcus. All she could say, amidst gasps for air, was how sorry she was.
The oarsman put his hand on her back. “Hey, let’s get him to shore. We’re going to tip.”
Norma wiped her face. She touched a wet hand to Marcus’s pale cheek.
“I should die more often,” Marcus said. “People like me more when they think I’m dead.”
CHAPTER 31
APRIL 25, 2054, 7:00 PM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
BUXTON, NORTH CAROLINA
The dinner table was drenched in the dim yellow light of simulated incandescent light. Lou sat between Dallas and David. Across from her Marcus slurped a bowl of broth. He still wasn’t eating solid food.
She smiled to herself, watching the old man eat his dinner. He blew on the spoon to cool the broth. Steam swirled around his face and then evaporated.
Dallas put his hand on her leg. She squeezed his hand and smiled at him.
Norma and Rudy were at one end of the table, Gladys at the head opposite them. Andrea and Javi were next to Marcus.
It reminded Lou of the dinners they’d shared in Baird. She lifted a spoon to her mouth, blew on the broth, and took a taste. It was salty and hot with a hint of chicken or poultry of some kind.
The Harbor was a magnificent place. Built near the lighthouse on the Hatteras Seashore, it was a complex of buildings and tents. There was a greenhouse, a large rainwater cistern, and a water filtration system.
The bridges leading to the island off the North Carolina coast were long gone. Decay or deliberate vandalism had rendered them useless. The only way to access the Harbor was by boat.
There were five hundred and seventeen people living here, all of them having arrived via the underground railroad. Some had spent time in West Virginia in an alternate harbor that didn’t prove as life-sustaining as what they’d constructed on the Outer Banks.
They had defense systems in place, and people tasked with security patrols. Lou had her first in the morning.
For the most part, this was as safe as any place Lou had ever lived. Somehow, without a wall or without the help of a government, life was sustaining itself in the Harbor. It was a good place with good people.
There were challenges, of course. It wasn’t Utopia. And if the drought ever ended, the threat of hurricanes might return. But this was good.
Lou was happy, her children were happy. Her husband, her friends, Marcus…all of them smiled more in the last couple of days than they had in her memory.
She looked around the table, spending a moment on each person there. Without having to think about it, she knew how each person had positively impacted her life.
Her father would have loved this. As distant as her memory of him had become, as much as his face and voice were patchworks of things true and imagined, she knew deep down he would be at peace here.
And she hoped, if he were looking down on her, hand in hand with her mother, he would know she was at peace too.
It occurred to her that her child Rudy might never know the pain and violence of her world. If she were lucky, she’d never have to tell him how to hide in rafters or wield a blade.
She chuckled to herself. Who was she kidding? That kid would be slinging knives the moment he could walk.
Marcus took another loud slurp of his soup. He was improving. His wounds, which she’d thought might kill him when they’d first dragged his limp body onto the boat, were healing. While he’d lost a lot of blood, both bullets went through and through, missing any organs.
Once he’d recovered enough to talk and before they’d given him drugs to knock him unconscious, she’d asked him if he would stay.
“I’m not much for the whole family thing,” he’d hedged. “I’m not good at it.”
She’d done her best to convince him otherwise. He’d listened before his eyes fluttered and he sank into a stupor.
He hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had she. She was afraid to ask him, afraid to know when he’d leave her again.
Marcus Battle was a solitary man. His was a loneliness born of circumstance and, for some reason, the unending product of self-preservation.
Lou was aware Norma also tried to talk Marcus into staying. She wanted him to be a part of this new collective. It was safe; it didn’t need his violence. And so, the violence that seemed to follow him wasn’t needed either.
Rudy did his best. He played the guilt card, telling Marcus he couldn’t be the only old man in a sea of women and babies.
Dallas also prodded gently, apologizing to Marcus for his treatment. He thanked the old man for his help, for his sacrifice. Dallas told Marcus, as did they all, that they couldn’t have made it to the Harbor without him.
Gladys stayed silent on the matter. She stayed silent on a lot of matters. Lou didn’t blame her. The idea of leaving Atlanta, of sheltering at the Harbor herself, would take getting used to for her.
The railroad would still function, still save women and children. But Gladys wouldn’t be in as much control anymore. Lou doubted Gladys cared one way or the other about Marcus’s decision to stay or leave.
Marcus finished his soup and pushed back from the table. He thanked everyone for dinner, set his empty bowl in the sink, washed it with soapy water, and set it on a rack to dry. When he limped away, Lou called after him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m tired,” he said. “I need to sleep. And I’ve got a lot to dream about.”
Lou understood. They all did.
CHAPTER 32
MAY 4, 2054, SUNRISE
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
BUXTON, NORTH CAROLINA
Marcus’s knees ached. He gripped the handrail and took another step up the narrow stairwell.
It was damp inside the space, the pleasant odor of salt air hanging heavily in the air. He rested for a moment on the second landing and looked up. Another thirty-one steps to go and he’d be there.
“I know this was built a long time ago,” he muttered aloud, “but couldn’t they have put in a freaking elevator? Would it have been too much to ask?”
Step by step, he climbed. His hand glided along the rail to one side, the rough, countless layers of old paint cold under the palm of his hand and against his fingers.
Although his side ached, the wounds were healing. The skin around the sutures and scabs itched. It was red but not infected. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been shot. And all these years later, he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that he’d taken more fire in his homeland than he had in Syria. Even if that idea wasn’t entirely accurate, it certainly felt that way. The war at home had stretched a lot longer than the one overseas. That part was indisputable. Was it finally over? He prayed it was the case.
Marcus glanced down, glad to be alone for a few minutes. While he, surprisingly, didn’t miss his solitary life, he did appreciate a few stolen moments here and there.
While mostly everyone was still asleep, there were the early risers who walked along the beach or scoured the dunes for shells and long-lost trinkets. One woman had somehow managed to resurrect an old-fashioned metal detector. Not only did she have an incredible collection of junk, she was immensely popular among the school-aged children.
He reached the top landing, exhaled, and chuckled to himself. Marcus would have thought that this morning ritual might have earned him some stamina. Perhaps it had. But stamina had nothing to do with the stiffness in his knees and lower back. He stretched, twisting from side to side until he felt the muscles lengthen, and stepped out onto the balcony.
It was a beautiful spring morning. The sun was inching above the horizon, its light painting the ocean gold, making the soft, rolling waves shimmer.
Marcus leaned on the black iron railing that curved around the circumference of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. He was one hundred sixty-five feet from the ground below him. Somehow, after more than two hundred years, the tallest brick lighthouse in the former United States still stood guard. A stiff breeze greeted Marcus when he moved around the balcony to face the Atlantic. The wind chilled his skin, blew across his scalp, dried his eyes. But he didn’t mind it. The briny air was refreshing, rejuvenating, life-giving.