Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4)

by Taylor, Jordan

  “There’s something in the window,” Rosalía says from the other side of the barrier. “You can’t lean out.”

  Ivy turns off the water with six inches of hot in the bottom. She’ll scrub as much dirt off as possible, drain, then fill the miracle.

  “It’s a screen,” she says, hopping on one foot to peel away a wool stocking that feels embedded in her flesh. “Keeping insects out.”

  “Do you want the bed by the window or the door?”

  Bed? Ivy would sleep on the roof, in the cellar, across the middle of the road....

  “Either is fine.”

  Warm and wet and soap with real lather and scent of lavender. Amazing. She lies on her back, knees drawn up, to soak her head and scrub vigorously at her hair with the bar of soap.

  When her ears are free of water, Rosalía is saying something about the painting.

  “Uh-huh.” Ivy dunks her head again.

  It is not until she runs the second bath that greater possibilities occur to her.

  “Rose, do you think they have a working telegraph office? They must. A maker’s city like this ... they could have anything. They could have regular post. They could have ... steamcoaches.”

  The light goes out. It comes on. Rosalía chuckles. Back out.

  “Did you have electricity in your home in Boston?”

  Only cavemen do not have electricity. And New Mexico Territory.

  “Yes. Do you think we could wash our clothes in the bath and they would dry by morning? It’s so arid.”

  “Nothing heavier than cotton.” The light comes on. “Do they give out?”

  “The bulb will blow eventually. It can take years.”

  “I knew about them. Grip has seen maker cities and electric lights. Winter thinks Santa Fé terribly old-fashioned. But I’d never seen them up close. How do they work?”

  “Wires run through the walls. Oliver powers devices off batteries and steam. That’s how he makes ice....” Ivy ducks under the water, shaking her head for a rinse. “I won’t be a minute more,” she gasps.

  “Take your time. We’ll get clothes washed before I go so everything can start to dry.”

  By the time Ivy is mostly dry herself, in her one change of underclothes, bent over the tub with Rosalía to scrub their shirts, she has her knees crossed and is almost hopping in place. How many glasses full did she drink?

  “How do we reach the water closet like this?” She glances down at her underwear.

  Rosalía crosses the room to yank a blanket off one of the small beds.

  Almost laughing, Ivy wraps herself and, barefoot, darts down the dim hall.

  Sixty-Fourth

  Rally to Combat Plague

  Women in low-cut gowns laced in leather and accented by elbow-length gloves. Men in suits gleaming with devices, goggles, and handguns, buckle boots and tall hats. Children in clothes made in a shop rather than by their mothers. Horses with brass studs glinting off tack, fly screens to protect their eyes, elaborate saddles with built-in holsters and timepieces rather than lariats and bedrolls.

  This in the first minute stepping onto the front porch of The Copper Key by daylight, following breakfast of bacon, French toast with apple butter, and fried eggs.

  The door bangs open behind Ivy, Rosalía, Sam, and Melchior and they turn.

  Their hostess of the night before dashes out, brandishing a crackling newspaper at Ivy. “This was it. I knew I’d read the name. Of course, it’s delayed—two months old from San Francisco. Are you a relation?”

  Sam takes the paper, frowning.

  “You receive newspapers from San Francisco?” Ivy asks. “And my name is in one?”

  “Look there.” The woman stabs her finger at a page, which Sam smooths and turns so they can both read.

  The Dramatic Chronicle is dated from August, the pages battered and creased. Ivy reads down a column on the front page which the woman pointed out.

  RALLY TO COMBAT PLAGUE NEXT SATURDAY

  Since his discovery of The Plague of Unmitigated Proportions in ’71, Doctor William G. Daray’s name has become known the world over. An ailment first called Poor Plague or Vice Fever after the slums of New York City where it spawned, Doctor Daray was himself murdered and consumed by his own study patients in ’72, by which time he had urged the government to quarantine the great city and halt the spread.

  As risers (men, women, or children stricken with Daray’s disease) claw the doors of the good people of San Francisco and roam our streets, we are all reminded of the consequences of inaction.

  Even as the sickness spread across the East Coast, people of the West slept soundly in their beds. The Great Fire of Boston, set to bring an end to a “horde” of the sick, also decimated a large portion of the city when the blaze ran away and the fire department was hamstrung by horse flu. Without the efforts of Boston’s makers, it seems unlikely any of that fine city would still be standing. In Philadelphia, a scheme was cooked up to drown riser hordes by means of vast tanks and luring sick inside with live prey. Regrettably, the livestock drowned while the risers waited at the bottom for the vessels to drain. How many instances of fighting and failing must be laid before San Franciscans before we may stand up and say, “I know a better way!”?

  The time has come, gentlemen. The hour is upon us. As we watched and waited and thought we should be so much cleverer if ever sickness reached our fair city, Daray’s disease moved steadily south, then west. Until, as this reporter has already professed, cold fingers of the Devil beat our doors.

  Rejoice! By this time next year, Daray’s disease could be gone: Doctors and scientists, even makers, of the East work tirelessly to bring us a cure; some kind of medicine or safeguard, a chance at salvation. In a recent telegram to this paper, Doctor Arthur Jerinson of Boston, leading researcher on the condition and former colleague of Doctor Daray, professed cautious yet growing optimism in the possibility of future inoculation (by syringe injection) against the spread of the sickness.

  Could it be? Could a chemical liquid and needle form the fortress which protects our human species from annihilation? If so, will it come soon enough? Do we as a city, as a civilization, as an entire world, have a chance?

  This reporter says, “YES!”

  IF we learn from mistakes of our neighbors.

  IF we rally now to protect our city and families.

  IF we stand up and fight while we still can.

  IF we work together to build a future in which we may leave our homes, may send our children to school, may visit places of work and amusement without fear.

  As previously reported, New York City has fallen, cities from Charleston to Providence have evacuated or perished. But Boston and Philadelphia and Chicago are still fighting, while San Francisco now enters the War.

  Join us: Let your voices be heard. Great men of this great city, come to The Palace Hotel at the corners of Market and New Montgomery Streets at Noon on Saturday, August 30, for a public meeting in which our leaders will discuss their plans, hear yours, and build a future for San Francisco together with her most precious asset: You.

  The Dramatic Chronicle will SEE YOU THERE.

  Ivy sits sideways on the partition between Corra’s and Volar’s stalls, absently combing her mare’s disheveled mane.

  “What do they mean when they say ‘fallen’?” Rosalía asks from Volar’s stall, cleaning out his hooves one by one.

  “Gone?” Melchior asks. He stands in the alley, grooming Chucklehead with a stiff brush.

  “A city like that could not be gone,” Sam says. “You do not realize how massive it is—how many people.”

  “No people, though,” Melchior says. “Are there? Only Plague-sick.”

  “I expect that’s what they mean,” Rosalía says, sounding doubtful. “Fallen makes you envision piles of rubble, bodies everywhere, plumes of smoke. Fallen.... How many people were in New York City?”

  “One million, I believe,” Sam says, turning his hands as Elsewhere methodically licks molas
ses off them. “Immigration into the city ceased even before I arrived. Ceased anywhere into the nation shortly thereafter. It should have many years ago, of course. All the ports. But ... when one is running away from something.... Many people were willing to risk the sickness over their pasts. Everyone imagined it would be stopped, cured, at any time.”

  “Maybe it will now.” Rosalía looks up at Ivy. “Does he really have an injection that could protect people?”

  Ivy combs at the bottom edge of the mane, an inch at a time. Perhaps she should cut some off. Luck’s was not so long. None of the other horses besides Little Bird have a mane as long as Corra’s. She had not been living the life of a trail horse a few weeks ago. Now she is impractical. And beautiful. Ivy combs on.

  The stable is quiet, only brushes and horses shifting and hum of flies.

  “He and his colleagues never used to share anything they worked on with the public unless it had at least gone to promising trials,” Ivy says, eyes on the mane. “They began debating a vaccine as far back as six years ago or more. Perhaps right from the beginning. I would not have thought it possible. He did not. But it has been a year and a half since I was in Boston. Anything could have happened. If they are mentioning such a thing to the public, it may mean someone has already run a successful test.”

  “Wouldn’t solve the difficulty, would it?” Melchior asks. “Still Plague-sick everywhere.”

  “But no one else would catch it,” Ivy says.

  “It could only stop the spread if everyone was treated,” Rosalía says. “Rails are closed, the nation shut down.”

  “Exceptions can be made. Medical supplies reached Raton Pass.” Ivy pulls the comb all the way through the long mane. She slides off the wall, brushing bits of hay from her dark tunic sleeves. “I would like to meet makers of this town, but we have greater priorities. Does anyone have cash?”

  Rosalía shakes her head.

  “Sixty-three cents,” Sam says.

  “Bit of dust and a few nickels,” Melchior says.

  Ivy looks around to the end of the row where Grip has been wrapping El Cohete’s swollen legs in a hot bran poultice. He was out with the horses before the rest woke. He has said not a word to them since they arrived and Rosalía told him about the article.

  Ivy waits. He does not look up or speak. She thinks better of prompting him, remembering he paid for their extravagant rooms despite not wanting to stay in the hotel at all.

  She looks at Melchior, who pulls the slipknot on Chucklehead’s rope to return to his stall.

  “I don’t know how long we will stay,” Ivy says. “But, wherever we go, we know we have another long journey ahead. We need as much to stockpile as we can fit onto the horses. Can you win us funds?”

  “Never seen a town I couldn’t.”

  “Please make income your first priority. Sam, perhaps you and I can find more newspapers? Local, imported, anything and anyone with outside information. The post office will be the best place to begin.”

  Sam nods, but he looks uncomfortable, glancing toward Melchior as he ties his horse in the stall.

  “Rose, will you please approach the Mexican community for us? If Arizona is anything like New Mexico, one can speak to five people about the same event and hear five stories. I would like to learn all we can about what people know or have seen out here. Can a freighter be organized to Santa Fé? Why and how is Monument prospering? What is the condition of the trade route to San Francisco? How much government assistance or interference effects roads to the west?”

  Ivy rubs her hand down Corra’s back as she steps from the narrow stall. “Sam and I will also visit any general stores to inquire about trade and communication. Our supper is covered by the hotel. Let us all meet in the dining room this evening and compare notes if our paths do not cross before then.”

  She pauses outside El Cohete’s stall at the end of the row. “Is he all right?”

  Grip glances up at her, then goes back to his wrapping, a laborious business with one hand, using his right forearm for assistance.

  “Older than the others,” Grip says. “He doesn’t hold up as well to a long journey on scant rations as he used to. All right after a couple days’ rest.”

  Ivy nods, watching the stallion shiver flies from his flanks. “Does Monument still have a mayor?”

  “And marshal. That does not make it a less dangerous city.”

  “Those men will know what goes on. Perhaps we may gain an audience with one or—”

  “I would not recommend it.” Grip straightens up, feeling along the buckskin’s scarred stifle.

  “Might you consider telling us what we should know about Monument without making us guess?” Ivy asks.

  Grip studies the leg, then looks at her, resting his left hand on his horse’s hip.

  “The government is corrupt. The makers and wealthiest businessmen run this town.” He shifts his gaze to Melchior, who has led out and tied Little Bird. “A bilk not working for one of the aforementioned will be executed on the spot.” Looks at Rosalía. “Tread carefully. You would be surprised who may be working for them.” To Ivy. “If you are perceived as a threat, such as diverting goods east for altruism, you will be evicted. You must make it sound as if there is much to be gained for Monument by aiding as humble a place as Santa Fé. You must also be careful to whom you speak and what you say. Monument does not take kindly to outside interference touching their kingdom in the sand. You may prove you possess greater sense than hitherto demonstrated by avoiding the makers of this city entirely. All of them.”

  Ivy looks at him, everyone else silent, watching.

  She lets out a slow breath. “Is there a reason you did not mention any of this a fortnight ago? Or a month? And do not tell me I did not ask or I will slip something in your coffee.”

  “Tell me what I said that would have affected your plans in coming.” Grip turns back to his work.

  “Of course I would still have wished to come. Yet these are details which—” Ivy shakes her head and walks away. “Sam, I only need my bag and goggles from the room. I will meet you out front in a few minutes.”

  It should not matter, any of the unsavory aspects of Monument. She had to remind herself just to mention Santa Fé and freighters a moment ago. All she can think about after reading that paper is how soon Corra will be rested enough to start for San Francisco.

  As she steps from the hotel stable into desert sunlight, Ivy almost walks into a pair of men turning the corner to enter.

  “Pardon me—” Ivy stops, feeling blood drain from her face.

  “Miss....” Both immaculate young men lift their homburgs.

  “The fault is ours. Please excuse us,” the older says with a slight bow, though polite words are belied by his less than admiring glance to her duster and pants.

  Horrified, Ivy whips around as they step past her into the dim stable. “Mr. Gordon?”

  Sixty-Fifth

  Dry Gulched

  The two men turn.

  “I did not expect to run across you here.” Ivy’s mind races. What can she say to keep them out of that alley?

  They scrutinize her for a second before Adair smiles. “Forgive us, Miss ... Jerinson. We did not recognize you away from Santa Fé.” His eyes flicker from her Stetson to her four-round on the gun belt below her duster. “What brings you to Arizona?”

  “I heard Monument held onto trade better than anywhere in New Mexico Territory these days. Which appears true.”

  “Quite. Well....”

  “What brings you here, Mr. Gordon?” Speaking louder than needed.

  “Business. The same reason most men are brought to Monument. May we presume you travel in company, miss?”

  “At this moment, I am adrift. Do you happen to know if there is an operational telegraph office nearby?”

  “There is. Overpriced and unreliable now, though you may find fortune.”

  “I do not mean to trouble you, only, if you could spare a moment, I have just set foot i
n town, Mr. Gordon.”

  It takes no great scrutiny to gauge their faces: Adair disinterested, Boyd impatient. What happened to the Greek gods buying her wine and asking her pleasure? She should have brought her mended dress to this city, no matter the space it would take in her packs. She thought nothing of walking out of the hotel this morning. Now she feels blood rush back into her face with a vengeance as she faces them, longing to pull down her hat and run.

  “Yes,” Adair says slowly. “Perhaps we can be of assistance?” He glances at Boyd and the brothers step back into the sun with her. “The post office is just this way. They have a telegraph office attached. Or one of the makers runs his own on Jackson Road.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Gordon. This is kind of you.”

  The streets are busy with humans and horses and the main thoroughfare, Canyon Street, is paved in red rock. By day, the brass lions sit upright, high as a man’s chest at the tops of their gleaming manes. Their heads shift back and forth as if watching all who approach. Ivy is certain this is automated, yet she has seldom seen such workmanship—the creatures appearing alive as they stare her down.

  Boyd remains silent as Adair, courteous, if cold, points out the most notable makers’ establishments, the finest gunsmith, and best saddler and cobbler in town while he leads her to the post office.

  “Les Canyons serves the finest meals,” Adair says, indicating a timber, copper, and iron false-fronted building. “Monsieur Paquet is the best chef in this part of the world. The man can make corn and venison seem a new invention. If you are staying at The Copper Key you should know they do not include drinks in their complementary suppers. You are running a tab for every whiskey and water.”

  Ivy looks over her shoulder to the grand hotel. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon. I did not realize.”

  “And there is a show in town at the moment, did you know? I cannot recommend it unless vulgar oddities are your taste, miss.” Adair looks around. “Here we are. Assuming their prices are no handicap, you should be able to get a telegram off as you please.”