She wipes at her eyes suddenly, then blinks, negotiates a smile, and gives a fumbling wave. She bounds back into the room and catches me off guard. “Did you see me?” she says. “I couldn’t see you.”
I nod and force the corners of my mouth up.
She asks, “Why do you think they had this window-mirror here?”
I raise my eyebrows. “To spy on customers?”
She looks over to it and watches her mother and the other women come up to the mirror side and do the same hair fixing she had done, unaware that we’re watching.
“Funny,” Lydia whispers, “Barrett would’ve loved this spy-mirror.”
* * *
Hundreds of the Reds are drawn to the central concourse of the sprawling mall where Malcolm is entertaining a multitude of children with colorful tales. He uses the amplifier from the cloud machine, but speaks softly to answer their many questions.
Lydia and I find a seat on a curved bench and listen. I spot a number of people stroking figurines they’ve stolen from one of the not-so-empty stores, round-bellied idols, rabbit’s foot charms, small horseshoes, and crystals. My stomach tightens, but I ignore my instincts. A man near us tells Lydia that Malcolm is explaining about the Suppression. He’s old enough to have firsthand experience of the early days.
His words depress me: “There’ve been countless changes since the Suppression. The first five years were the worst. The nuclear clouds did their damage not just to the earth, but to people … animals … plants. You kids have no idea how wonderful life was before everything was suppressed. Schools, factories, churches, the internet.”
“What are those things?”
The child who asks has never learned any of those words. I look around at the older faces, faces that nod sadly in remembrance as Malcolm gives definitions, draws wonderful word pictures of hard to imagine things.
“But those dreams ended with the Suppression,” Malcolm continues. “The first drought came in 2072 and I lost …” His voice cracks. He shakes his head. “Well, let me tell you about the first uprising. There’s a marker, a monument, that if we’re lucky we’ll pass by on our travels. It’s called Usala’s Rock and …”
I stop listening then and remember my first view of that monument, what happened there, how my life turned. I met Kassandra at Usala’s Rock. Married her soon after. Had a son. Thought I could escape this destiny. I feel so guilty sitting here next to Lydia. I’m torn between loyalty and desire.
“You’re free from that life,” Lydia whispers, as if she’s reading my thoughts. I jerk my head up and try to recall Malcolm’s last words.
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you listening? He’s talking about the real enslavement. Though the Reds have been under Battista’s rule and then Truslow’s, it’s really the Blues that were imprisoned by the lies. You’re free from that life now. You thought you were a Blue, but you’re a Red.” She smiles and I want to make everyone else disappear. Then I have a better idea.
“Come on. Let’s look for the twelve springs.”
I noticed one on the way in. An artesian well that bubbled up continually. It might be hard to get everyone to leave this shelter with such easy access to water, but we’ll have to move on soon. Food will quickly be a higher priority.
We explore the entire mall and find eleven of the small wells, each expertly worked into some architect’s clever design. A waterfall. A pond. A sprinkling system for an overgrown garden. A picnic area. They are easy to spot since every single one has a crowd of people around it filling buckets and jugs. And at the pond a dozen women try to launder clothes.
“Where could the last one be?” Lydia scowls. I touch her hand. She’s trying hard not to think of Barrett, but I’m not fooled. “Outside maybe?”
We’re close to where we busted in, but I’ve noticed that already men have forced open several exits. Smart. I pull her toward one and we go outside. It’s nearing sunset. We look in all directions. I hear a faint sound like water splashing on pebbles. I point west. She spots the greener area right away and this time she pulls me along. I suck in my breath. I have so many words stuck in my heart. Things I want to say. To comfort her.
I don’t know if I can say any of them. I hold her hand tighter when we reach the spring.
“Well, that’s all twelve. Barrett would’ve—” She doesn’t finish. Her breath takes a little hop over her throat. She turns toward me and all I can do is hold her while she sobs.
The sun sinks a little lower. When she finally steps back and wipes her face she acts like nothing’s happened.
“Tell me about the Suppression.”
And I do. We sit near the spring on a concrete bench and I tell her what I’d learned: that the new government suppressed virtually everything in order to take control. Communication, radio, TV, most phones. They closed schools. Took away guns. Stopped the manufacture of anything the tyrant, Bryer Battista, considered unnecessary. Transporting goods was curtailed. It was politically incorrect to disagree with any of his policies. Then there were the Suppression Uprisings. Battles. A civil war. The nuclear fallout and the droughts were followed by the horrible mutations. Then there were the wild animal scares. The riots. More suppression. Some of this I learned from Barrett’s friend, Vinn, the first time I escaped from Exodia.
I talk more than I’ve ever done before, but throughout my ramblings I’m thinking about Barrett, too. I wonder how long she’ll grieve for him. Probably forever.
My mouth goes dry. We spend several seconds in a stiff silence. She doesn’t have any questions about the Suppression, but corners of her mouth perk up just a bit and I sense that she has something difficult to say. I want to take her hand again, but my own have begun to perspire and the hard rock in my chest is thumping like crazy. There’s a thumping in my ears too and it feels like the earth is shaking. She leans toward me ever so slightly and my shadow falls gently across her face as I move closer too. Awkward.
And then she gasps. “What’s happening? Is this an earthquake?” She senses the tremors that I’d imagined were my own. I jump to my feet and look toward the setting sun. The pounding I’d felt materializes in the west as a thousand horses gallop our way. There are riders atop every one of them. With the red sun behind them I can’t tell if they’re wearing Exodian uniforms or not. Could Truslow have had enough time to replace the army that fell just a few days ago?
We’re trapped here. Defenseless.
“We can’t warn the others.” She pulls on my arm, urging me to understand. I feel her thoughts through my skin. She’s strong. She’s quick to evaluate, plan, strategize, but she wishes I were Barrett. They’d been through tough situations. “We’ll act like we’re the only ones. Lost.”
I shake my head. We both scan behind us, making sure no one else has come outside, but I realize the futility of such a plan–the evidence of hundreds of footprints, a wide path that narrows toward the entrance, trampled weeds and scuffed dirt. I have mere seconds to decide.
“Run back. Warn everyone. Bar the doors.”
I’m thankful for her quick obedience.
The dust that rises behind the riders glows red. I stand taller and wish I had Harmon’s rod. I’ve a fraction of a hope that these are Ronel’s people coming to guide us to the place he promised, but more likely these are bandits, Bluezools, though I never believed they’d band together in such numbers.
I glance back to make sure that Lydia has almost reached the door, but two riders have come around from either side, orange tunics catching fire in the sunset, scouts who were sent ahead no doubt. A good plan. A better plan than any I had. I barely leap two strides before one of them plucks her from the ground. She kicks and screams, but a loud burst of gunfire earns her compliance.
I run toward them anyway. The horde behind me slows and the cloud of dust swoops over their heads and then mine and settles on the two scouts and Lydia. One holds her draped across his horse’s withers. He sneers and coughs out a taunt, “Yell adios to y
our lady.”
Yell adios. Lose Lydia.
I stop in my tracks.
* * *
Lydia braced herself as well as she could for the ride of her life. The hard edges of a well-worn saddle bit into her stomach as she struggled to balance. The scout had pulled her up and thrust her across the saddle, face down, warning her with gunshot and words. She was too smart to resist. She kept one hand against the horse’s neck and with the other she pushed her fingers under a strap that cinched the saddle to the beast’s back. If this Bluezool was going to race off with her as his prize then she wanted to be ready. The rider kept her left leg trapped beneath his right thigh. Her other leg hung free, but she could neither kick the man nor the horse. His heavy hand pressed the cold weapon against her back.
The horse backed up a few feet and her view of the ground changed. A heavy cloud of dust and dirt fell over them. Bram’s legs came into view, his open hands imploring, but his voice silent.
“Yell adios to your lady,” her captor yelled. His thigh tightened against hers and the horse moved past Bram and joined the hundreds of others. She heard the first part of the leader’s threat, followed by a question that was cut off by the sharp, coughing fire of nano-guns. She grunted as the pain of bouncing on her rib cage nearly knocked the breath out of her. She tensed her muscles and twisted her head expecting to see a fallen Bram in a puddle of blood, but instead her sideways view revealed her Red neighbors pouring out of the various exits. They all had weapons that were trained on the Bluezools. The burst of exploding nano bullets had come from them and they had surprised the bandits, killing the leader and forcing the small army to retreat.
If the Bluezools had come to steal they had indeed stolen something that would give them the ultimate bargaining power.
* * *
I fall flat to the ground when I see Malcolm, Harmon, Eugene, and a surge of other Reds stream out from the mall, guns ready. I’d always heard that Reds had squirreled away enough weaponry to take over Exodia if only they could produce the ammunition. I hope, in this instant, that they are willing to use every precious bullet to save Lydia.
An eruption of nano fire punctuates the curse that spits from Eugene’s lips. I expect a deafening battle to ensue, but the bandits’ response is surprising. They retreat in a hoof-pounding fury. It’s safe to jump to my feet. I chase after Lydia’s abductor even though I know it’s useless. I don’t have Barrett’s speed or endurance. I repeat Eugene’s curse as I slow down, spitting dust and wiping globs of dirt from my face.
Lose Lydia.
It’s futile to fight against this fate. Or is it? Already I have a plan. I’ll need Eugene’s help, Malcolm’s machine, and Harmon’s rod. And maybe my sister will be willing to use her special gift as a distraction. I rush back toward the mall where now dozens if not hundreds are milling about, some strutting like heroes, others whispering concerns. The tang of nano-fire dissipates in the air.
“We’re going to follow them,” I begin. I shout directives, pick a crew, and take command as if I was born to lead.
* * *
It’s my intuitive idea to have the four hundred volunteers spread out in two lines abroad. By cutting a wide swath we won’t fail to spot where our attackers turned off. Our candles and oil lamps will make us look like a huge descending army when we close in on them. But that’s not why I think the idea is inspired. I was born to lead seems a self-important motto, but the letters slip apart and reform as soon as I think them. Two lines abroad.
I’m in the middle. To my right and left and in the second line behind me march Lydia’s neighbors, Teague’s most trusted fighters, and the Reds that accepted me on Barrett’s account months ago. The outer wings are comprised of the Mourners, a group of older men, and a surprising number of well-armed teens. Mira has come with six specially chosen young women, ready to dance an exotic distraction to our advantage. The young man who helped her with her sled, I’ve learned his name is Josh, follows her with a contingent of equally muscular companions. Harmon’s rod is in my left hand, but Harmon has stayed behind with the mothers, children, and hundreds of Red men who would have accompanied us, but who would better serve our purposes by defending the twelve springs.
We follow the smell of horse and sweat and freshly mauled earth as well as the signs of broken limbs and hoof prints. We hear nothing for the first hour, but as it gets darker I finally detect the curiously faint clues that tell me we’re close. I poke the rod out to my left, lightly touching two men, and hold my other arm against the chest of the man at my right side. In a fan-like choreography the next person on either side does the same, stops, and holds his fellow marcher back from going more than one step further. Our lights wave onward to the last men on the outsides. The second line is just as curved as the front line. If our prey is half a mile ahead as I suspect then we’ve already begun to surround them.
“They’re hidden up ahead,” I say. “Maybe ten minutes more.” If they knew of Barrett’s unique ability perhaps they’ll trust that I can hear what they cannot. Whispers pass my message down both sides. The lights waver in the hands of each one as lips move, heads nod, anxious fighters prepare their weapons. I take a deeper breath and let it out my nose. I’m afraid that if these angry people charge they’ll endanger Lydia. They’re spoiling for a fight. A few days ago they ran in fear of Truslow’s army, but now they believe themselves equal to any other group like Bluezools or resistance fighters or secret towns of the non-tattooed.
“I’m going in alone,” I say. I pass my light to the man behind me and step forward, swinging the rod up and out in front of me. Those closest to me hear and stay rooted to the ground. I’m more than a little surprised at their obedience. There’s movement down the lines, but though they couldn’t hear my command they guess my intention and no one follows.
I count my steps to keep an idea of how far behind me my help is. The yards mount up and I stop at a thousand. A quick glance back reveals a stunning sight. The Reds are holding their lights high, as if they are mounted on horseback. The clouds part and moonbeams whitewash the rocks between us. Shadows dart, visible but ghostly beneath the flickering lamps, their edges blurred.
* * *
Lydia was dumped at the entrance to an underground city. Bruised and in minor pain, she lay against the concrete barriers and watched as her captors released their horses into a strange corral. The fencing was hidden neatly behind closely planted trees and was covered in vines. It looked more like a dense forest than a shelter for animals.
In the fading light she scanned the faces of the men who had exchanged their threatening attack for a panicked retreat the instant their leader was slain. Their clothing was tattered and they wore their beards longer than did the men of Exodia. They spoke in clipped words and there were whole phrases that held not a single word of English. She understood enough, though. Two men, the one who had carried her off and the other scout, parked themselves beside the barriers and made it clear that she was not to run away. She didn’t think she could anyway. In addition to the physical pain, her fear of what these strangers could do to her had her in a frozen panic. She’d grown up in the Red slum, a slave to the cultural caste system, and even though she’d run freedom missions with Barrett and secretly spied for Teague she was now experiencing a crushing loss of control.
She pulled her legs in and pushed her body higher against the concrete until her head reached the bottom of a copper plaque with raised numbers: 2049. She couldn’t lose her nerve and go to pieces. She forced herself to concentrate on the date. Think, think, she told herself, calm down. An elderly neighbor had once told her about a weather phenomenon that spooked a faction of the mid-century populace to move beneath the surface. 2049 – almost five decades ago. Weren’t the cave dwellings abandoned after the Suppression? She twisted her neck and read the entire plaque. It couldn’t hurt to know as much as possible in her current circumstance. She slowed her breathing and fought for more control.
When all the horses wer
e put away and most of the men had disappeared down the stairwell another group of men and women came up from below. They wore similar orange vests, trimmed in black.
“And what have we here, Amal?” A silver-haired man spoke with slow clarity.
The scout who had carried Lydia answered, “It was like I reported yesterday, Director. Large group of refugees. Thousands. But they already reached the stores and somehow broke in.” He paused, spoke a garbled phrase, then continued, eyes down. “Only a few were outside. I grabbed her on impulse. Then Hasser’s men rode up, but, but, there must have been sharpshooters waiting in ambush. They killed Hasser, Director.” He lifted his eyes to meet the piercing stare of the silver-haired man. “Without a commander we just …” His voice trailed off.
“You just turned and ran like scared bunnies.” The Director clicked his fingers and waved both scouts to the side. “Show me your elbow,” he ordered Lydia.
She struggled to her feet and pulled back her sleeve. She wanted to stare right back with the defiance that was coursing through her veins like snake venom, but she kept her eyes down and waited.
“Stupid Red.” He spit on the ground. “Are you anybody? Will they pay for your return?” When Lydia meekly shook her head no, he turned to his entourage and spoke a few words in another language. The others agreed with single nods. “All right. You, take her down. And you, you get two lookouts and post them to the middle field. I’m replacing Hesser with Koji. He’ll annihilate these wandering Reds. If they don’t come to us by morning, we’ll burn them out of their hiding place.”
Lydia stumbled down the steps behind the first scout. The other one, Amal, kept a hand on her back, his weapon ready at his side. He was surprised to learn that she was a Red. He thought the Blues kept them farther south than this. Blues, Reds, Gemfries, Americans, Northerners, it didn’t matter which group she belonged to she wasn’t one of Amal’s people. She’d blend in, though, with that chocolate complexion and shiny black hair. Maybe he could claim her. He’d enjoyed the spoils of raids before, but with only one captive stolen on this campaign he’d be too far down the ladder for rewards. Still, he began to think of ways to change her destiny. She was beautiful. It’d be a waste to sacrifice her.
Out of Exodia Page 3