The Light of Hope

by Ernie Lindsey

  The Light of Hope

  Book 3 of The Rhythm of War Trilogy

  Ernie Lindsey

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

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  Copyright

  Ernie Lindsey

  www.ernielindsey.com

  ©2014 & 2018

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  All rights reserved.

  1

  Days have come and gone. Nights, eventful and non, have passed with the expected consistency of the world turning, and my people remain slaves. The Democratic Alliance of Virginia, and its regiment of enlisted soldiers, blackcoats to everyone but their own kind, continues to drive man, woman, and child alike to the point of exhaustion.

  The war, if there every truly was one, is lost, and I’m on the fringe looking across the great divide between undeserved freedom and chains.

  My legs used to be nothing but muscle, as hard as hickory wood, but after weeks of running, hiking, and marching, they feel as if they’re turning into oatmeal. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this before my body truly begins to break down. The Republicons and I, we’re not eating well. It’s hard to hunt and trap game when you’re trailing the biggest, loudest herd imaginable.

  Nearly every edible thing with four legs scampers as soon as forty thousand people get within earshot.

  Sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes the animals are curious, like now, drifting in the direction of the horde’s din, ears perked and alert. They have to be familiar with the scent of man. Humans have been in this part of the forest for centuries.

  Perhaps the commotion is as intriguing as it is frightening. Whatever the case, I don’t plan to tell my bunch that they should run.

  James hides behind a mountain maple, but not very well. His large frame sticks out from either side, but he’s doing the best he can. I’m ten feet away, making myself small against the trunk of a poplar tree. He puts his fingers to his lips and points northwest. I follow his gaze and see that the whitetail deer, thirty yards away, are on the move, heading west, but slowly.

  I think it’s a mama doe. It’s slightly difficult to tell because the horns are gone this time of year; however, I can assume it’s a female by the two fawns that are playfully prancing nearby.

  James nocks an arrow, takes a deep breath, and then aims.

  My mouth is already watering, imagining the blessed meat searing over a campfire. I’m so hungry that I feel no guilt for the fawns. They’ll learn the ways of nature. They’ll survive without a mother.

  James hesitates a second too long.

  Pow.

  The doe and her fawns whip their snouts around, smelling the air, ears keenly aware of danger, listening for more of the same.

  Pow, pow.

  We blink, also turn in the direction of the shooting, and the little family unit is already up the hillside by the time we look back. James curses and lets the arrow fly in a desperate attempt, missing by a full yard as it flies over her back and disappears into limbs and leaves. There goes our best chance at a real meal in days, and likely another precious arrow lost in the dense underbrush.

  The sound of gunfire, over the ridge and to the east, had come from one of the watch-guard DAV infantryman. Either he was herding the PRV slaves back into formation, someone had dared an escape attempt, or one of the elderly couldn’t go on—a mercy killing, he’d claim.

  I’ve grown bitter over the past few days. As long as it wasn’t my mother or my father—we’ll do a recon mission later to find out exactly who—I’ve begun to think that whenever this unfortunate occurrence happens, maybe it’s better to arrive in the Great Beyond ten, twenty, thirty years too early, rather than spend the rest of your days making someone else bountiful and rich.

  I’m reasonably confident that it’s not my folks. We’re matching strides with the rear of the marching horde. Two days ago, we learned that Mother and Father are being kept up close to the front, near Finn the Betrayer; perhaps as bait for me, perhaps due to Mother’s healing knowledge, but there’s no way to tell.

  James whispers an apology about his miss.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whisper back. “Maybe the Blakes or Marla will have better luck over on the eastern side.”

  James smirks. “And the sun will rise in the west tomorrow.”

  “I’m so sick of Mint Monster for dinner.” My stomach grumbles, partly in protest, partly from hunger.

  Mint Monster—that’s what we’ve taken to calling the green concoction that we make in our canteens, just to give our water some flavor and substance. It’s a mixture of fresh mountain spring water, mint that grows on the banks of creeks, along with wild raspberries, blueberries, and ramps. Maybe even the occasional mushroom if we can find the edible ones. We mash it as best as we can, but with all the chunks floating around, it’s like drinking curdled milk and my stomach revolts every time I swallow.

  Three days ago, we stopped stealing from the DAV supply wagons when the blackcoats accused a group of hungry PRV citizen-slaves of thievery. They lined up twenty men, women, and children along the side of the road and shot them in the head, one by one.

  I didn’t feel the need to eat after that. Not for a good, long while.

  The guilt kept my belly full.

  Water is plentiful, as it always has been, but the gang of us cannot continue to live on Mint Monster and the occasional squirrel or rabbit that don’t know enough to scamper away from the tromping masses.

  Is it better to starve to death in freedom or feel your soul waste away in chains?

  My people, the formerly free population of the People’s Republic of Virginia, are now the property of our northern enemies, the Democratic Alliance of Virginia. We were betrayed by those who were supposed to protect us.

  And that’s the deepest kind of betrayal—when the people who are in your heart decide to rip it to shreds without remorse or guilt.

  Finn the Betrayer spared my life on the battlefield, but he stole any chance I have of making a real stand against him when he destroyed my abilities as a Kinder with that serum.

  Then there’s President Larson, who handed over the PRV citizens in exchange for clemency—at least I think that was the word that was used. He gets a bed with silk sheets and a host of servants. He’ll never have to work again. His people, however, the ones he took an oath to protect and serve for the betterment of mankind, will be forced to work until their fingers bleed in the DAV mines and factories for as long as they live.

  Roughly forty thousand people tramp northward, hunkered over in the never-ending rain. Their clothes are sopping wet, nothing more than puddles themselves in tangible form, draped over ti
red, aching shoulders and feet that have trouble remembering how to pick up and set down in front of the other one.

  We’re weeks away, maybe even more than a month, of steady marching before we return to the DAV’s capital city of Blackvale. How these people, who can barely stand, let alone move their aching bodies forward, will be able to work is a complete mystery to me. I’m looking at it with reason and logic, and that’s a mistake.

  James says that the DAV leaders didn’t spend so much money and risk the lives of their soldiers to march tens of thousands of empty shells northward. They’ll find a way to make it work, whether it’s a whip across bare skin or a handgun cocked next to a throbbing temple; some tactics used by the blackcoats will make all their effort worth it.

  That is, unless we can find a way to put an end to this madness. Simply freeing my people to run back to Warrenville isn’t an option. The DAV leaders will regroup and come after us again with a bigger army and more resources.

  I’m beginning to wonder if my mission to free my people has already failed before it has begun.

  No, it has to be something drastic, one that will ensure our sanctuary and freedom forever. What might that drastic option be? Does it exist?

  I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll never be free, and I’m out of my mind to think I can do something about it. I have to believe I can, though, because this can’t all be for nothing.

  I can find a way, can’t I?

  My dreams say one thing, while my waking hours insist that they’re nothing more than just that…dreams.

  Spirited imaginings of a hopeful child.

  Another three days of hiking pass by in a dull, lifeless blur. We track the marching PRV slaves, but off in the distance and out of sight.

  We walk. They walk. It’s wet, miserable, and I’m not sure it’s possible to be more tired. Not that I’m jealous of my enslaved people, but at least they’re fed twice a day. It may be moldy bread and tough, flavorless beef jerky, yet at the moment, I think I’d surrender just to have a bite of something I can tear with my teeth.

  However much my stomach feels like it’s eating itself from the inside out, I can’t surrender. I have a mission. It could be a mission that won’t come into play for a month, but it’s out there, waiting for me to act on it.

  Some days I fill up on the thought of revenge, and it carries me through the night.

  Some days I burden my stomach with so much Mint Monster that I feel as if I’ll never want another drink. Our bodies crave nutrients, however, and we need the strength to go on.

  We lost the Blakes yesterday. Not to death, but to a lack of heart and desire. The conversation was short and James allowed them to leave without much of a fight. Little Blake begged. Big Blake gave good reasons. Apparently, the bonds of the Republicon family code weren’t enough. At least not ours. They claimed to have a real family, somewhere to the east, somewhere near the ocean, and they were tired of running. They were tired of fighting.

  I had told James to let them go. This is my war, and I’m not going to make anyone fight it for me, even if they still consider me to be their leader.

  And now, as I sit here mashing up a handful of mint, watching the skin of my palms temporarily turn green, I don’t exactly regret the fact that they’re miles and miles away and aren’t coming back. They were big. They required a lot of our resources. With the two of them gone, we’re actually able to spare a few blueberries and raspberries to eat.

  We sit alongside one another, resting on two downed maple trees that appear to have been ripped up during a recent storm. Their roots look fresh. It was a storm, or a giant used them as toothpicks. That was one of the Elders’ favorite stories to tell—stories that kept the children from running away in the middle of the night. It reminds me of better days, brings a smile to my lips, and practically begs me to tell it.

  I share it with the rest of the group—James, Marla, Squirrel, and the others who are committed and determined enough to stay on this journey.

  I lower my voice, making it deep and gravelly. “We need to stay together,” I say, “even in the dead of night.”

  James lifts an eyebrow. “What’re you going on about?”

  “These two maples, they aren’t just trees.”

  Squirrel grins and plays along. “That so?”

  “Nay, children, these trees were toothpicks used by the Great Ones as they roamed the hillsides during the blackest of hours. Giants, a hundred feet tall, maybe more, carefully tiptoed through the woods, looking for meals.”

  “That’s some bull right there,” Squirrel chides. “How’s a hundred-foot tall giant gonna tiptoe without waking anybody up?”

  James punches his shoulder. “Let her finish, dummy.”

  I say, “They tiptoe silently because they’ve had thousands of years of practice. They step over hillsides like they’re tiny mounds of dirt. Rivers change their paths if a Great One steps in it. They walk and they walk, much like we’re doing now, in search of food, hunting, hunting, hunting for their favorite meal…”

  They’re all adults. They know better. But at least I have their attention with my wide eyes and fingers curled like claws.

  “And what’s that?” Squirrel asks.

  I’m about to say “children” like the Elders used to tell us; instead, I get an idea. I whisper as quietly as I can. “Their favorite meal, the thing they love more than anything else in the world is...” Everyone leans in closer to hear me. I hiss, “Squirrel meat!” and jab my Republicon friend in the ribs.

  He yelps, jerks backward, and falls off the maple log, spilling some of his precious Mint Monster all over his face. Everyone laughs. Even Squirrel, thankfully.

  It’s a good moment, a fun one. Something we haven’t had together in…well, ever.

  From the moment I met James back in my encampment, when he and his clan saved me, along with Finn the Betrayer, we’ve been on the run, going as hard as we can go. I’m positive this is the first time we’ve ever sat down and laughed together. There was the time on top of Black Rash Mountain when we cheered that our salvation was in sight, but that wasn’t the same. That was relief.

  This is a moment of joy.

  Squirrel climbs onto the log beside Marla and tries to wipe his face clean. The mint mash from the water clings to his eyebrows, sending us into another course of subdued laughter. We needed this, desperately, yet we also don’t need to alert the blackcoats to the fact that we’re stalking them.

  Being captured and forced into slavery is not a part of my dreams.

  2

  We have no idea what day it is, and it doesn’t really matter.

  The sun rises, the sun sets, it rains, and we walk.

  My people walk. My people die and are left to rot alongside the road during their never-ending march northward. We’ve taken to burying the bodies at night to keep the animals away. These people didn’t ask for this, and their souls deserve more respect than the nibbling teeth of a fox or bear, some hungry predator.

  Two days ago, a blackcoat soldier noticed that a shovel had gone missing.

  Three people—two men and a woman—lost their lives because we only wanted to do some good.

  We buried them with the stolen shovel that led to their deaths.

  Even James cried and whispered, “I’m so sorry,” while he dug.

  Today, we wait until nightfall. We wait until the last stragglers and blackcoat guards disappear around a bend, then we backtrack for nearly a mile to bury an elderly man who plainly gave up.

  We all take turns. James first, then myself, followed by Marla, Squirrel, and the others. With the entire group digging, the hole is ready in no time. We grab the body by the arms and legs and lift. The old man is so light, he could be filled with nothing more than cotton. My hands are closed around legs that are so thin and shriveled, I’m grasping loose skin around hard bone.

  James and I lower him into the grave. Marla finds a wildflower growing on the bank to our left, plucks it, and leans down to p
lace it on his chest. We don’t know his name, nor have any of us ever seen him before, but we say a short prayer regardless.

  Though James says their kind aren’t particularly religious, certain situations call for it. What they recite is a Republicon prayer.

  “Dear Father,” they begin, as we all close our eyes, “may our hearts and minds live freely among the trees. We are one with your land as we are one with your heart and soul. We live free, we die free, and we return to you…free. Our friend and brother under the same blanket of Heaven rests under your wings…free. We have cared for him as you would care for him. His time here is done. Our time with him here is done. We look forward to the day when we can join his free spirit in the afterlife. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I whisper. I look down at the old man, lying there so peacefully below us. It’s almost enviable, his situation, because he is really and truly free.

  James scoops up a shovelful of dirt and drops it on the body. The hollow thunk and the scrabbling sounds of falling clods of dirt snap me back to reality. I shake my head, clearing the thoughts of envy for the dead, and focus on the night ahead.

  “We need to find more food,” I say. “Last time I checked, we were low on berries and the creek looks like it’ll begin carving too far westward soon enough. It’ll be out of range to stock up on mint for the Monster unless we store up.”

  James jams the shovel into the mound of dirt and leans on it with an elbow. “About that,” he says. “I know you don’t want to abandon your folks, but Squirrel and I were talking earlier…”