by LeVar Burton
In St. Louis such cries were a regular nightly occurrence. They were also ignored. Getting involved in other people’s problems was a good way to end up hurt. Or dead. Amy didn’t know if the same rules applied to small towns, but she imagined they did. Besides, the call for help had already stopped. Either the person had been helped, or …
A shudder danced down her spine. She didn’t want to think of the other possibility. It made her remember the bald-headed man in St. Louis and how close she had come to being a victim. She pushed the images from her mind and thought instead of happy things: bubble baths, fresh bread, hot cocoa.
Help me!
Amy jumped up and looked around, her heart pounding wildly. Someone was in the living room with her. But that couldn’t be. The living room was small. There weren’t any places to hide. Still, she was certain the voice had come from the same room.
A chill feeling of terror settled deep in Amy’s stomach as she suddenly realized that she didn’t hear the voice with her ears. She heard it with her mind. The person who called for help wasn’t outside, or in the living room. They were in Amy’s head. She forced herself to stand motionless and listen for the voice. A few seconds ticked slowly by before she heard it again.
Help me!
It was a woman’s voice, loud and clear, calling for help. The woman sounded like she was in the same room with Amy, but she wasn’t. Instead she was somewhere deep inside the little girl’s head.
Amy tried to attach a name to the voice she heard. She thought of the few friends she had, but the voice didn’t belong to any of them. Nor did it belong to any of the workers she knew at the shelters, neither the nice ones nor those who weren’t so nice. It wasn’t Sister Rose’s voice either.
Who then? Who? Whose voice could it be that called her, asking for help?
Amy’s eyes went wide. Was it a ghost she heard? She looked around the room, hoping with all her heart that she wouldn’t see a ghost. Not that she believed in ghosts. Not really. All the same, she didn’t want to see one. But the room remained empty. Amy breathed a sigh of relief.
But if it wasn’t someone she knew—and if it wasn’t a ghost—who could it be? Who could be so linked to her that they could magically call for help? Amy thought it over, and came up with the answer.
“Momma?”
Of course. Who else could it be? After all these years Amy’s mother must have finally regained her memory. She knew her daughter would be looking for her, so she was reaching out to her, calling her. Amy didn’t know how her mother was doing it. Maybe God was helping her.
That must be it. Amy had gone to the church and lit a candle, said a prayer. God must have forgiven her for cutting the bald-headed man. He had answered her prayers, putting Amy in touch with her mother.
“Where are you, Momma?” Amy turned around and around. She couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, had no idea in which direction to look.
Help me!
“I will, Momma. I will.” Amy ran around the room, trying to follow a voice she could not see. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”
Her mother must have heard, for she answered her. It truly was a miracle.
Chicago.
Amy stopped. Chicago. Her mother was in Chicago. She had to go there. Tonight. Now!
Hurrying from the living room, Amy entered the kitchen and turned on the light. Her shoes sat by the door, where Sister Rose had put them. She quickly pulled them on.
She started to open the front door but stopped. It wouldn’t be right to leave without saying goodbye, especially after all Sister Rose had done for her. But Sister Rose was still sleeping; Amy didn’t want to wake her.
Looking around the kitchen, she found a pen and a piece of paper. Amy scribbled a quick note, thanking Sister Rose for everything and saying that she was on her way to Chicago to find her mother. She signed her name at the bottom of the note, then added an apology for stealing a loaf of bread. Putting the pen down, she picked up the loaf of bread and opened the door.
Sammy greeted her as she stepped out onto the porch. He tried to jump on her, but Amy told him to lie down. Crossing the porch, she opened the door and hurried down the sidewalk. Amy was a block away before she realized she was being followed. Sammy came bouncing down the street, dancing around her, wanting to play.
“No,” Amy said, lowering her voice to sound more grown-up. “Go home.” The dog only cocked his head and wagged his tail. “I said go home!” He still refused to obey.
She tried ignoring Sammy, hoping he would get tired of following her and go home on his own. But four blocks later he was still at her heels. Angry now, Amy wheeled and kicked at the dog, missing him by inches. Sammy barked and jumped playfully out of the way.
“I said go home!” she yelled. Sammy stopped and dropped his head, dejected, wondering what he had done wrong. She started to yell at him again, but his pitiful look stopped her. Instead, she bent down and gave him a hug.
“I know you want to come with me, Sammy, but you can’t. You belong to Sister Rose. It wouldn’t be right if you came along … she’d think I stole you.”
She straightened back up. “Besides, it might be dangerous and I don’t want you getting hurt.” Sammy cocked his head, as though trying to understand what she was saying.
“Go on home now, Sammy. Go home.” He only sat there. Amy backed away slowly. The dog watched her, but made no attempt to follow.
She turned and ran, not stopping until she reached the end of the block. Sammy still sat in the middle of the street and watched, perhaps waiting for her to call him. She didn’t. Amy turned her back on the dog and kept walking, turning her back on a possible companion. She was alone again, as always, and Chicago was a long way off.
Chapter 21
The road stretched like an endless black ribbon through the barren countryside, passing deserted townships and crumbling farmhouses where the ghosts of shattered lives still dwelled. A great sadness clutched the heart of Jacob Fire Cloud as he stared out the dirt-streaked windshield of the pickup truck, wondering what had happened to those who once made the empty towns and farms their homes.
Had the men answered the call of sabers rattling and marched off to war, their heads held high, their chests filled with foolish pride? Did they set aside their plows and bid farewell to their wives, girlfriends and children? Was it a final farewell? Of those who left, how many had returned? How many now lay buried in unmarked graves? If the houses could speak, what stories might they tell? What sadness would they share?
Maybe the people of the farms and villages had simply packed up their belongings and left, joining the parade of wandering homeless that walked the highways in search of greener pastures and a better life.
Even on the loneliest stretches of road, there always seemed to be someone walking: individuals, couples, entire families. Loaded down with backpacks and baggage, they shuffled their feet wearily beneath the blistering sun, eyes focused on some imaginary oasis in the distance—an oasis where a better life might be had, a place that didn’t know of suffering, hunger or war.
And when they could walk no more, when their feet grew weary of mile after endless mile, they stopped and erected their tents, cardboard shacks and shanties of weathered plywood, proclaiming to the rest of humanity: “I am here, and here I will stay.”
That voiceless cry swept through the countryside like a beacon. One tent became two, and two soon grew into many. Villages and communities popped up where none had existed before, spreading across the prairie like a rash. New cities formed. Metropolises not of gleaming high-rises, all glass and chrome, but of plywood and canvas. They were places where the have-nots could finally find peace, friendship and the chance to start over.
Unlike in the cities of old, the citizens of the new America were forced to rely on one another for survival. There were no strangers among the once homeless, no slackers or the terminally lazy. And while robbery was often accepted as a means of survival on the open road, it was not tolera
ted within the boundaries of the new communities, at least not among the citizens who lived there. A person did not dirty his own nest. Those who broke the rules were dealt with quickly and often severely.
Weary of watching the land darken with the coming of night, Jacob turned and looked at his traveling partner. Danny Santos had run out of things to say several miles back and now drove in silence, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel in rhythm to a song only he could hear.
In the past several hours, Jacob Fire Cloud had learned a lot about the talkative young man. Danny was full-blooded Filipino, but he had never been to the Philippines. Nor did he speak the language. He knew little about his culture, other than the few food dishes his mother had taught him how to prepare. Born and raised in southern California, he now lived in Montana.
Danny’s wife was also from California; he had showed Jacob her picture. She was a white woman, very pretty, with long blonde hair and green eyes. They had been married for seven years and had two sons, ages five and six. Like their father, both boys had brown hair and dark skin.
From their conversation, Jacob also learned that Danny had been making deliveries only for a year or so. Before that, he had worked in a factory. This was the first time he had driven out of state. His wife had argued against him making such a trip, but they needed the money so he had accepted the job. The company that hired him provided the pickup; they also provided the assault rifle. Danny had never shot anyone, let alone killed anyone, and was hoping he wouldn’t have to do so. After seeing the bodies of the men Jacob had killed in self-defense, he was having serious doubts about doing any more cross-country deliveries.
Luckily for Danny, this particular trip was almost half over. Omaha was only about a hundred miles away. In two hours he would arrive at his destination, unload his shipment of electronic components, and then spend the night at a state-run hostel—a safe haven for cross-country drivers. Only those with the safety and luxury of armor-plated vehicles with sleeping compartments spent the night beside the open road.
Danny would start back home in the morning. Jacob would be on his own then with only a rusty bicycle to get him the rest of the way to Chicago.
Jacob sighed. The White Buffalo Woman waited for him in Chicago, her life threatened by unknown forces. Even now he could hear her pleas reaching out to him, begging him to help her before it was too late. Time was running out. Not just for the White Buffalo Woman, but for all mankind. The Great Shaking drew near.
“Last stop before Omaha,” Danny said, pointing out the window. Up ahead, a small village of tents and wooden shacks was set up in a field near the highway. Most of the village sat in darkness, but a few of the tents and shanties were illuminated by the glow of tiny campfires. A couple of larger fires burned alongside the road, their dancing flames illuminating a barricade of wood and wire and the armed men who guarded it.
Like the local, state and federal governments of old, America’s newest communities also had their ways of securing income. Instead of taxes, however, many claimed the sections of roads that passed by their borders and tolled them accordingly. The tolls applied only to those with motor vehicles. After all, if you could afford to ride then you could afford to pay. Sometimes the state stepped in to shut down such illegal operations, but since the toll was usually only a coin or two, or an item of trade, they were usually left alone.
“Better slip those pistols under the seat,” Danny said. “No sense spooking the locals.”
Jacob did as suggested, concealing the pistols they had taken off the robbers. “What about my pistol … and the assault rifle?”
“Naw. They’re okay. We’d appear suspicious if we were completely unarmed,” Danny replied as he slowed the pickup.
The barricade stretching across the road was constructed of a half dozen or so wooden sawhorses, connected together by several rows of barbed wire. It appeared rather flimsy, and they could have driven right through it if it weren’t for the men standing guard next to the barricade. Armed with shotguns and military assault rifles, the guards could stop what the barricade did not.
Danny pulled off the road and stopped.
“You stopping?” Jacob asked the obvious.
Danny nodded. “I figured this might be a good place to stretch our legs. Maybe get a little food. You hungry?”
“You buying?” Jacob asked.
“Maybe.”
“Then I’m hungry.”
“Leave your pistol on the seat. No one will steal it” Jacob slipped the revolver out of his belt and laid it on the seat. Rolling up the window, he climbed out of the pickup. Danny locked the doors and also climbed out. One of the guards approached them.
“Turn around,” the guard ordered. Danny and Jacob did as they were told, allowing themselves to be frisked for concealed weapons. Satisfied they were unarmed, the guard stepped back and told them they could turn back around.
“Where are you headed?” the guard asked.
“Delivering supplies to Omaha,” Danny answered. “Thought we’d stop and stretch our legs, maybe get a bite to eat.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Electronic components: gauges, switches, that sort of thing. The city is trying to repair a couple of water-treatment plants that got damaged during the war.”
The man nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Toll’s fifty cents, but we’ll take anything of value.”
Reaching in his pocket, Danny pulled out two quarters and handed them over. The guard nodded and pocketed the money.
“I’ll move the roadblocks when you’re ready to go, and I’ll keep an eye on your truck in the meantime.”
“What about my bicycle?” Jacob asked.
“I’ll keep an eye on that too.” The guard smiled. “If you’re hungry, there’s food for sale in the camp. We also sell gas if you need some.”
Danny thanked the man for the information, assured him that they were interested only in food and started toward the village.
The village was small as far as roadside villages went, with probably less than a hundred people living in a variety of shacks, tents, tipis and lean-tos. A small stream entered the village on the north side, providing a source of fresh drinking water, irrigation for the vegetables in a community garden, and a place for bathing and washing clothes. When the stream left the village, it carried with it raw sewerage from a row of latrines.
In the center of the village an acre or so of land had been left unoccupied to form an open square, which was used for social gathering and as a place for merchants to sell their goods. Several vendors were set up, selling and trading everything from scrap metal to jugs of homemade blackberry wine. Jacob and Danny passed up the wine booth and headed for a food stand instead.
A slender, middle-aged woman sat beside an open fire, roasting thin strips of meat on wooden sticks. On a sheet of rusted tin beside her were stacks of corn tortillas, made by spreading a thick corn gruel over the bottom of a frying pan and then heating it over the fire. She looked up with interest as the two of them approached.
“You hungry?” she asked. “I’ve got fresh rabbit. My oldest son just killed it today.” She slipped a tiny piece of meat off one of the sticks, tore it in half, and offered it to them. Jacob and Danny both sniffed the meat before trying it.
“It’s not rat. It’s rabbit.” To prove her point, she pointed at a small plastic bucket containing the heads of two wild rabbits.
“How much?” Danny asked.
“Two dollars a stick,” the woman replied.
“What! Two dollars!” Danny exclaimed. “That’s outrageous.”
The woman’s face darkened with anger. Reaching behind her, she picked up a rock and tossed it to the young man. “You don’t like my price? Go kill your own fucking rabbit.”
Danny dropped the rock and started to walk away. “Let’s go. We’ll buy our food somewhere else.”
Jacob didn’t move. He cocked his head and looked at the woman.
“Wha
t are you looking at?’ the woman asked, directing her anger at him.
“Who’s sick?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “What?”
“Who’s sick?” he repeated.
“Who said anything about being sick No one’s sick”
“You’re lying,” he said calmly. “I can smell the sickness on you. I can see it in you. Who’s sick?”
The woman’s hardened exterior crumbled. Pain showed in her eyes. “My youngest son … but how did you know?”
Jacob ignored the question. “May I see him?”
“Why? Are you a doctor or something?”
“Perhaps.”
The woman looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. She stood up and gestured for Jacob to follow her. “This way.”
Jacob and Danny followed the woman through the twisting passageways between the makeshift homes to a mildewed canvas tent. Inside the tent a small fire burned. Beyond the fire, three sleeping bags were stretched upon the ground. On one of the sleeping bags lay a boy about twelve years old.
Jacob could tell the child had a fever just by looking at him. His face was flushed and, even though the evening was quite warm, he lay shivering beneath several tattered blankets. Crossing the tent, he laid his palm on the boy’s forehead. The child was burning up.
Jacob turned and looked at the boy’s mother. “How long has he been like this?”
“He took sick yesterday morning,” she answered.
“Have you given him anything?”
“Only water. We don’t have any medicine, and he can’t keep food down. I keep hoping the fever will break, but it hasn’t.” She wiped the tears from her eyes with a trembling hand. “He’s bad off, isn’t he? Real bad. I just know it. Is he going to die?”
“Yes.” Jacob nodded. Without another word, he stood up and left the tent.
“Wait! Where are you going?” the woman called after him. “Can’t you help my son? Please, won’t you help him? Please?”
The old Indian walked back through the village, returning to the pickup. Danny hurried to catch up with him.