by Justin Bell
“Then when is the time?” Lydia asked. “Where is the place? I need to know what’s going on. The world is falling apart and I don’t know where I fit.”
“You’re one of us,” Jodi said quietly. “You’ve always been.”
“What about Mom? Dad? Winnie and Max? What makes me any different from any of them?”
“They’ll be here.”
“You’ve been saying that for a month. And now, we’re planning on going to this Summit in Washington. What happens if they show up after we leave?”
Jodi closed her fists and placed them on her hips, tilting her head as she looked at her granddaughter. “Where are all these questions coming from, Lydia? You’re alive. We’re protecting you and teaching you to survive this new world. What else do you need from us?”
“I need some answers.”
“Not every question has answers. Sometimes you need to be satisfied with the answers you do have and not dig around for the ones you don’t.”
Lydia looked at her grandmother through a new light. It was a light of clarity, though not one she particularly liked. She knew something was off about her grandparents, she’d known it for a while, but she had been too thankful for her continued survival to dig too deep.
Now it had been months since she’d seen her family. Months of uncertainty, and months of unanswered questions. She owed her grandparents a great deal, and she felt a sort of undying loyalty to them that a lack of information wouldn’t shake. But at the end of the day, no matter what else was happening, she wanted to know what their next move was, and whenever she asked that question, she got a frustratingly vague response.
All she knew was that the First National Summit was coming soon, and the Kruellers wanted to be there to help in the rebuilding. The question is, what role would they be playing, and was it a side she wanted to be on?
“Enough questions, all right?” Jodi finally said. “Let’s go get some lunch. Maybe your grandfather will meet us there and we can talk more together.
Lydia nodded vacantly and followed her grandmother across the parking lot toward the main warehouse complex, her brain working at trying to translate the conversation they had just had.
***
The key rattled the lock and in the dim light of the single room office, Hyun Ki Park pushed through, easing the door shut behind him. The office had gone unchanged since he and Rita Kramer had been in it a few days before, the single desk, chair, and radio near the back wall where they’d been. Darkness shrouded most of the small room, square windows of pale light punched into one wall. He walked to the windows, footsteps echoing in the dark quiet, and stood by the dim light, looking out into the fringes of downtown Philadelphia. The warehouse complex wasn’t visible from where he was, but he knew it was there, just a few blocks away, and he could almost hear the hammer banging the metal into shape. In twenty-four hours—forty-eight at the most—his scientists would be shutting themselves in the lead-lined room to put the finishing touches on the device. A device that would further reshape the direction of the world.
A device that, whether the Kruellers liked it or not, would eject America from its super power status and thrust North Korea where it belonged… and where it deserved to be. Park pulled himself away from the windows and walked toward the desk, halting for a moment to flip on the portable radio, closing his eyes to listen to the reassuring noise of low static. Plucking the handset from the cradle, he adjusted the dial to the required frequency and engaged the call button.
“RK, this is HKP, please respond.”
Static came back.
Hyun Ki gave it a moment, then pressed the button again and repeated the command.
After a few moments, a tinny, static scrambled voice replied. “This is RK.” The voice was in a low whisper.
“Rita, glad to hear your voice.”
“And yours,” the other end replied.
“What is your status?”
There was a moment of silence, then the static broke. “We are still en route to the planning meeting. Things are going slowly, but we expect to arrive tomorrow. How are things there?”
“According to plan,” Park replied, careful not to be too specific.
“Good. Good.”
“When do you anticipate knowing the timeline for the Summit itself?”
“They are guarding that information carefully. No schedules have been shared yet; that information will likely come when I arrive.”
“Very well.”
“Have your hosts been behaving themselves?”
“More or less. There continues to be some disagreement over some of the details, but the end result will not be affected, this I can promise.”
“And the plan remains the same?” Kramer asked, her voice low and rough within the persistent static.
“Yes. We continue to test the range of the remote detonator. We have operatives masquerading as cell technicians piggybacking receivers onto the towers that are being upgraded.”
“So detonation triggering can still occur outside of the blast radius?”
“The tests are demonstrating that, yes. Even if that fails, we have a timer on the device itself that should provide us enough time to get far enough away.”
Kramer didn’t reply immediately, Park was only greeted by a sheet of crackling static.
“RK?”
“I’m here,” she replied. “I think we’ve said enough on the radio. Further conversations can wait until I return.”
“Understood,” Park replied. “I miss you, Rita.”
“I miss you, too, Hyun. Very much. I look forward to this all being over.”
“Safe travels, my dear.”
“See you soon.”
Hyun Ki smiled thinly as he returned the receiver to the cradle. How eager the Americans were to help him. How willing were they, with just the slightest encouragement, to sacrifice much of what their nation had in order for a little personal reward. Masqueraded under a veil of what their country used to be and what they thought it could be again.
It had been all too easy, and the mission was very nearly accomplished. Two weeks from now, give or take, Hyun Ki Park was sure the nation’s capital would be in ruins and the backbone of his homeland’s greatest adversary would be crushed beyond repair.
Two weeks until the end. The pieces were falling into place and soon enough a plan that had been half a decade in the making would reach its zenith, and North Korea would stand atop the ruined corpse of America and proclaim themselves rulers of the free world.
***
The rapid slamming of fist on wood shook Rhonda from her dazed slumber, dried hay rough on her cheek and digging into her legs and side. Her eyes fluttered, trying to make sense of her surroundings, the large, cavernous barn looming high above her place in one of the segregated stables. From where she lay at an angle, her back pressed into the pile of hay, she could see the shadowed figure of a man standing by the opened door of the barn, slamming his fist into the wall. He was bracketed by the pale, pink light of pre-dawn morning, and her head was swimming in the fog of sleep deprivation.
“Time to wake up!” the man shouted. “Get to work! There is much to be done!”
Rhonda pulled herself up from the hay and worked her way out of the stable area, rubbing a closed fist over her eyes. The man walked deeper into the barn over to the opposite side and began kicking the wall there, his boots crashing in the still morning air. Within the other stables, Rhonda could see the children starting to stir.
“Hey, take it easy,” she hissed. “They’re just kids.”
He turned toward her. “They’re workers, same as you. That’s all any of you are. Farm hands. Now, shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you, woman.”
“Excuse me?” Rhonda said, drawing her head back.
He took a long stride toward her. “You do not speak unless spoken to. Be quiet and learn your place.”
“Your place is going to be on the ground in a minute, my friend,” Rhonda replied.
The man glared at her. She could see him now, up close, and he wore one of the familiar black cloaks that she’d seen the men on horseback wearing when they first ran across the Unbound a week or so ago. His hood was drawn back and bunched up atop his shoulders, a thin shadow of dark hair coating his scalp. He had long but well-groomed facial hair, and he walked toward her in even, confident strides, the robe over his legs shuffling slightly as he did. Rhonda couldn’t see the bow and arrow anywhere, but she was one-hundred-percent certain that this was one of the men who carried one.
“For a week you’ve been here,” he hissed. “We have shown you hospitality. Given you a roof. Food. Required little from you other than the occasional chore. For this, you threaten me?”
“Hospitality?” Rhonda asked. “You call this hospitality? It’s a prison.”
He scowled at her. “Warm sun. The outdoors. Naturally grown food and home cooked meals. Were you getting all of this as you were trying to escape the nuclear wasteland out there?”
Rhonda started to reply but held her tongue.
“I suggest you continue biting that tongue until we’ve decided we want to hear what you have to say. You have no say here. Your only purpose is to serve—”
Rhonda’s fist lashed out, a whipsaw motion powered by muscle and bone, the knuckles crashing into the man’s left jaw. His head snapped back and he stumbled, then she moved in and swung again, landing a second shot deep in the ribs on his right side. With a cough he toppled forward, landing on hands and knees, his breath coming in staggered, uneven gasps.
“How did that serve you?” Rhonda barked and stepped toward him, but immediately more forms appeared at the barn door and shoved their way in, dashing past the fallen man and enveloping Rhonda in a thrashing of arms. She shouted and squirmed, but arms wrapped tight around her, pulling both of her upper limbs back into a contorted twist behind her. Lunging forward, she grunted, but three men were around her now, holding her and pinning her back.
“Let her go!” shouted Max, bursting from his place in one of the stables, and across the way, Phil charged free of his as well. More men ran into the barn, two of them wrapping up Rhonda’s husband, a third tackling Max to the ground, holding them tight.
“What is going on here?” said Rebecca as she vacated her own bed of hay with Angel shambling behind her. Winnie, Tamar and Brad appeared from the other side, but more men also appeared, and the barn was suddenly full, in a half-hearted standoff between the Frasers and their group and the Unbound.
“Enough!” a voice shouted from the opened doorway, an echoing bark of single-minded, vocal energy.
Rhonda looked up, straining under the clutches of the three men surrounding her and saw Elias standing there, near the barn door, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrow above the steel gray wool of his beard.
“What precisely are you doing?” he asked, glaring straight at Rhonda.
“Why don’t you tell your goons to let me go and I’ll show you what I’d like to do.”
Elias gestured to the men holding her, waving his hand callously, as if merely moving it would push them away with his mind. They obeyed his motions and released her arms, backing slowly away from her respectfully.
“It sounds like you’re taking issue with something. Is it perhaps, the quality of the fine foods we’ve been feeding you? Is there a leak I didn’t know about in this roof that I’ve graciously put above your head? Please, by all means. Share with me your pain and suffering.”
“Elias, don’t misunderstand me,” Rhonda said. “We appreciate the food and shelter. It’s more gracious than we’ve had in quite some time.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“But this isn’t our final destination. We need to get to Philadelphia. My daughter is there.” She looked over at Phil. “Our daughter is there. Their sister,” she waved toward Max and Winnie. “Our family is incomplete.”
Elias lowered his head for a moment, then looked up at her. “Many families are incomplete. Many of those same families don’t have the luxury of a warm bed and fresh food. Many of those same families will never see their family members again.”
“Please, Elias,” Rhonda said, trying not to sound desperate. “My daughter is a hundred miles away. She’s right there.”
Elias stood looking at her, his face a carved stone, hands on his hips. “It’s time to milk the cows,” he hissed. “We’re done here.”
“You son of a—” Rhonda growled and moved forward, but the men around her converged on her, wrapping her up again and dragging her backwards. One of them raised a closed fist.
“Don’t even think about it!” shouted Phil and lunged toward them, knocking aside one of the men to his left. Chaos ensued, as more bodies shifted, trying to get in where the action was. A grip on Tamar’s arm released and he shifted right, then spun and kicked, launching one of the men backwards, off his feet, into a wooden support column. He ducked away from another grasp and swept the feet out from a second man, then kicked a third in the chest, sending men in robes scrambling from around him. Two men holding Rhonda broke away to head toward him and she ripped her arms free, dashing toward Elias again. More men turned toward her, running to intercept, and Winnie broke free.
“Run!” Tamar shouted to her. “Run and don’t look back! Go get help!”
Winnie glanced at her mother, then back at Tamar who was sliding to his left, thrusting a side kick into the chest of another farm hand.
“Don’t look just go!”
Winnie drew in a breath and lurched forward, swerving behind Tamar, then dashing to the barn door. Three men tackled Rhonda as she started toward Elias, knocking her to the ground, then another man tackled Phil around the waist, dragging him down. Tamar was finally wrestled to the ground and as Max moved in to help him, another man knocked him down and a second swarmed over Brad, holding him back.
Rebecca lashed out to her left, slamming a palm into the chin of a nearby hooded farm hand, who scrambled backwards, arms pinwheeling. As he tried to recover, Angel moved in and punched him with a rigid left cross, but more of them came from everywhere, four of them piling on the two, dragging them down into the hay. A series of rapid punches rained down on Angel’s head and neck, battering him as he was pressed deeper into the scratchy hay at his feet.
“Is this how you want to live?” Elias screamed, stepping into the chaos, his voice bellowing above the din of bodies slamming together, and the rustling of contorted flesh being driven into the hay and dead grass. “We are a people of peace! Yet you bring violence into our homes!”
Rhonda strained against the grasps around her.
“The young one is escaping!” shouted one of the men in a black hood, pointing out toward the barn door. Elias turned and saw Winnie sprinting across the yard, legs and arms pumping in unison.
He whipped his head around toward Rhonda, lips snarling under the gray beard. “If violence is all you understand, then the language of violence is what we will speak!”
“No, please!” Rhonda screamed. “You don’t have to!”
“Archer!” Elias shouted. “Take her down!”
One of the black-robed men broke away from the fracas, unslinging the curved bow from around his shoulder.
“Please, she’s a teenage girl!” Rhonda pleaded.
“Don’t do it!” Phil shouted, squirming from the floor, held down with a knee pressed to his spine.
In slow motion the man in the black robe leaned left, nocking a wooden arrow, straight and long, slowly peeling back the taut string of the bow, the pointed tip of the arrow hovering, firm and still, not wavering.
“Please!” Rhonda screamed, her throat strained with the force of her voice.
The archer’s fingers sprang apart, the arrow flew with an audible hiss of wood arcing through the air. It sounded like the long hiss of an angry snake as the narrow shaft hurtled out over the grassy terrain.
Rhonda’s eyes widened as the bolt fired an intercept course, streaking stra
ight and true, Winnie charging forward, running at top speed. She slammed her eyes shut and drew away, not able to watch, but she heard the dull whack of shaft into flesh, burying into tight, young muscle, and the swift, fiery cry of her daughter being struck.
***
The sun had long since slid down its arcing horizon toward the west and night was slowly encroaching upon the dim light of dusk. In the distance, the single-story farmhouse grew darker with the withdrawn daylight, the flickering embers of lanterns inside illuminating the scant windows facing the barn.
Rhonda sat in the hay, her back pressed against the wooden slats, unmoving. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, only that the chaos had immediately halted with the fired arrow and her group had rapidly acquiesced, the fight draining from them like water through a sieve. Elias had taken a measure of mercy on Rhonda herself, letting her remain in the barn, eyes vacant and staring off at some unknown thing in the distance, something she could see and smell, but not quite touch. Like a gentle spark of her old life it throbbed there, in the darkness, but always just out of reach.
Footfalls crunched on hay as Phil and Max returned, her husband’s head down, his feet shuffling, as if it took all of his effort simply to continue forward progress. Max lingered close behind with Brad just to his left, the whole group a shambling shuffle of weary flesh and aching bones.
“Rhonda?” Phil asked as he approached, moving toward her. “How are you?”
“How do you think I am, Phil?” Rhonda asked, her vacant gaze looking right through her husband, staring at some celestial body out in the cosmos, light years beyond the concerned look on her husband’s face.
“Have… have they said anything?” he asked, his voice growing faint as he lowered himself into an exhausted, seated flop in the hay next to her. Max stood there watching, waiting to hear what they would say.
Rhonda just shook her head, steady movements back and forth.
“What are we going to do?” Phil asked. “We dragged her across the country. For Lydia. Only to lose her?”