“That’s all a load of crap. How many times do I have to tell you not to believe that stuff? There is only one paradise—Welkenglebe, the home of Virid—and all the rest are lies.”
“That money will give us a chance, and you know it.”
“It will also get you killed. These black market people aren’t like regular peddlers, Joe. These are dangerous men.”
“Either help me, or I’m doing this alone,” Joe said. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“You’re a fool for not wanting to do anything to save us. Do you want to live like cowards? Do you want to be a coward?”
Frank slapped Joe across the face. Joe’s head snapped to the side. His cheek stung. What he’d said about Frank wasn’t fair, and he knew it. He deserved the slap. But he was so frustrated that nobody wanted to do anything about their family’s survival (when a huge chance had landed right in their lap!) that he’d said something he didn’t mean.
“I don’t want to hear another word,” Frank said.
“I’ll find a way. It’ll be harder without you, but I’ll find a way. I’m doing it. With or without you.”
“I’m telling you, you won’t make it.”
“The blood will be on your hands.”
Frank didn’t say anything. He spit on the ground and then rubbed it with the heel of his shoe before he walked away.
At the edge of the river, which shone silver in the moonlight, Frank put out the alcohol lantern. They would make the rest of their way by moonlight. Before they crossed, Frank wanted to check the transistor. He’d made a deal with Joe. He told him if they heard anyone looking for the Arbyter, they would turn back and go home. Frank twisted the dial, but all they heard were crackles and fuzz. That was all they ever heard.
“The coast is clear,” Joe said. “I told you. Nobody’s looking for it.”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make any sense. Come on.”
“Okay, okay, settle down.”
They stepped into the river’s sluggish current. The sound of the water seemed amplified in the dark stillness and seemed to echo as if in a canyon. They waded slowly along until they got to a sandbar where they rested a minute. Joe looked up river. The dark water snaked through the bluffs and into the night sky as if it were flowing into the stars.
When they reached the embankment, they crawled up to the road. Frank slowly approached the wrecked Arbyter like he still didn’t trust it. They walked around to the other side and then climbed up on top. Frank fished a small box of matches out of his shirt pocket. He struck one against the base of the lantern and lit the mantle. Light quivered against the Arbyter’s metal and against the symbol of the seven-pointed red star with the bull’s-eye in the middle. Joe flipped open the fuel plate and unscrewed the cap. He shoved one end of the hose down into the tank.
“Let me get it started,” Frank said.
He wrapped his mouth around the hose and sucked, but he must not have pulled away quick enough because he made an awful gagging sound.
“Frank?” Joe said. “You okay?”
Frank turned his head and hacked, but in the process he knocked the lantern off and it hit the ground and rolled away. Joe grabbed the tip of the hose, bubbling with diesel, and jammed it into the five-gallon bucket. He looked at Frank again, who was on his hands and knees now, coughing and retching.
“Frank?” Joe said.
He scooted beside his brother as Frank rammed a finger down his throat. His body convulsed. He choked and retched again until a gush of vomit spewed out. Some of it splashed on Joe’s pants, but he didn’t care. He touched his brother’s hunched back. It trembled. Frank turned to sit upright again and plunked right down in his own puke. His eyes watered, wetting his cheeks. Drool hung from his lips.
“Frank,” Joe said, “say something.”
“I’m okay,” Frank said, his voice hoarse. “Check the diesel.”
“There’s only a little bit coming out now,” Joe said.
He looked closer and examined the liquid inside. It was about half full.
“Put the lid on,” Frank said, “and let’s get out of here.”
Once they climbed down, Frank found the cracked lantern. Then they scurried down the rough embankment to the river. Frank stopped and slurped up a mouthful of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it out.
On the other side of the river, they hurried over the bluff and through the woods until they hit the flat valley. Joe looked up at the soaring night sky. For a few seconds he stared at the bright stars swooping and shining above their farm. He loved to do that. Gazing at the stars was one of his favorite things to do, but there was no time for any of that now.
Chapter 4
At the farm, Joe lugged the bucket of diesel inside the barn, where they poured it into a smaller red container. Frank located some deerskins and they wrapped them around the container and tied it up with twine to keep it secure. Frank said he wanted to make the bundle look like a bunch of skins that were being taken into the city to be sold. It wouldn’t draw suspicion, especially with the story they came up with about why Joe and the pregnant orphan girl needed to go into the city in the first place.
Then they packed the wagon with supplies. Food and water, a foot trap, a bow and six arrows, blankets, firewood, a flint sparker, an extra knife, and a rusty fishing pole. Frank found the box of rifle shells hidden in a trap door near the back of the barn. He pulled it out and opened the rusty metal box. There were two leather pouches of bullets inside—one for the old bolt-action rifle and one for the Calvin lever-action rifle.
When Frank picked up the Calvin pouch, Joe was surprised, and a little excited.
“How many of them you need?” Frank said. There were only thirty shells left.
Joe thought for a moment. “All of them.”
“You can’t take all of them.” Frank counted out ten. “Now that’s all you get, so be smart with them. Don’t go wasting them.”
“I won’t. Food and protection only.”
“Protection only. If you get low on food, forage and trap. As a last resort, use the arrows.”
Frank held out the shells in his good hand. The cuff on his green shirt rode up his wrist and revealed a thick purplish scar. It was from where he had scraped the city’s identification number off his skin and from where he had cut down a quarter inch to make sure he dug out the translucent veritag. After Joe stuffed the shells in his pocket, Frank put out the lantern and they left the barn.
They walked over to the well to get a drink. Above the dark bluff along the river was a sweeping sky of stars.
Frank pumped the handle and Joe leaned his head into the stream of musty water dribbling from the spout.
“You remember who to go to?” Frank said.
“The fat man,” Joe said. He wiped his wet mouth.
“Templeton. Remember that name. He saved me.”
“I know.”
“You sure you can do it?” Frank said.
“I can do it.”
They switched places and Joe pumped as Frank drank. Frank rested his damaged hand on the top of the spout while he cupped his good hand and splashed water on his face.
“If you don’t make it,” Frank said, “I won’t be able to live with myself.”
Joe looked at his older brother. He stared into Frank’s weary eyes before Frank laid his wet hand on Joe’s head.
“Be careful,” Frank said. “You hear me? Just be careful.”
Joe still recalled his brother’s face on the day he returned from the city. The instant Joe saw Frank’s horse plodding toward him in the distance, he sprinted across the dry ground shouting Frank’s name. Joe was breathless by the time he got to his brother, but Frank didn’t even acknowledge him. He stared straight ahead, his face lifeless and cold.
“Get on home and quit blubbering,” he’d said.
Joe was stunned and hurt. Only later, when he saw the missing f
ingers and the scars across Frank’s back, did Joe understand. At the steel mill, Frank got his hand caught in a slag wagon, and if not for a fat man named Templeton, who tore Frank loose, he might’ve been dragged to his death. The scars on his back were from being a dirt-eater.
In the house, they took off their shoes and went quietly up the stairs to the bedroom they shared. The curtains were open and moonlight brightened the dark room. Once Joe got into bed, he had a hard time keeping his eyes shut. He felt a little jumpy, or maybe fidgety. He couldn’t tell. Maybe he was a tiny bit scared. Or maybe it was only nervousness excitement. Whatever it was, he was ready to go. He couldn’t wait to go. All he could think about was getting to Chikowa and getting that money and returning home a hero.
Chapter 5
The following night, just as they planned, Joe and the pregnant girl snuck away while Mom and Dad slept. Frank hitched up the horses to the pickup wagon and rechecked the bundled-up container of diesel. It was hidden in a metal compartment below the wagon cab’s floorboards. They’d made the compartment a while ago to hide valuables when traveling.
The wagon itself was fashioned from an old pickup. The front end was shorn off and the engine gone to scrap a long time ago. All the windows in the cab were busted out and the doors torn off. Inside, there wasn’t any steering wheel, or stick shift or radio, because they had all been ripped out too. They were useless now. All the dials—the speedometer, the fuel gauge—were stripped of needles and the numbers faded to smudges. The seat was made of wood planks. Lashed over the wagon bed was a bonnet, like the kind on an old prairie schooner, only the bonnet was made of plastic tarps.
After Joe and the orphan girl were in the cab and ready to go, Frank reached out and touched the cuff of Joe’s pants. He let the rough fabric drift through his thumb and fingertip. Joe looked down into Frank’s moonlit eyes. Frank’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but then it closed up again and he slapped the side of the wagon.
“Get going, then,” he said.
Chapter 6
By daybreak, they were riding through a gently rolling land. The short copper-colored grass rippled in the hot wind like animal hair. Inside the cab, Joe hunched forward and held the reins loosely in his hands. The wagon rolled and swayed along the dirt road. Up ahead there was the shimmer of a hill on the horizon.
He pushed up the brim of his straw hat and looked at the pregnant girl. She bounced in the seat next to him, her head slung low beneath her floppy-brimmed hat. Her straight yellow hair swung like clothes on a line. She wore the same dress with the blue flowers she had worn yesterday. She had only three—the one she came to the house in and the two that Mom had made for her since. Her big belly sticking out still looked funny to Joe, like she was hiding a big ball underneath her dress. He was expecting at any minute for her to pull it out, to laugh like it was a joke, and look like a normal girl again. Joe wondered what the pregnant girl was thinking or if she was thinking at all.
He kept an eye out for a place to stop and rest. He was tired from traveling all night and morning. That’s when he first saw the caravan as a thin trail of dust rising in the distance. As it got closer, the dust turned into a cloud. A while later, the shapes of the caravan began to appear and grow more distinct. Joe didn’t know what to expect or what kind of people they might be, so he grabbed the Calvin rifle off the floor and cradled it in his lap. When the caravan was maybe half a mile away, he swerved the wagon to the left to give the caravan enough room to pass by. He wanted to avoid any confrontation or any appearance of being unfriendly. But he got nervous and stopped the wagon. He kept his hand on the Calvin rifle. His mouth was dry and sticky like paste.
The caravan stopped all of a sudden. Dust whirled around it. There were two campers and two long trailers pulled by teams of horses and bisox, which were an old genetic cross between a bison and an ox. Four lone riders on horseback wore matching brown hats. Two of the riders talked with each other until one turned his horse around and came galloping toward them. Sam whinnied as if he was going to be spooked, but Lester nudged him with his head as if telling him to calm down.
“It’s okay, boys,” Joe said.
But if everything was okay, why was the man charging at them so fast? Did he want to cause trouble? Intimidate them? If so, it was working. When the brown-hatted man was almost on them, he pulled his big gray horse up close to the side of the cab.
Lester and Sam reared up and Joe tugged on the reins. The wagon creaked. The man’s horse stomped its hooves and turned in a circle. In one hand the man held a rifle upright against his thigh.
“It’s okay, boys,” Joe said to Lester and Sam again.
Once the man’s horse settled down, he peered in at Joe and the pregnant girl. His eyes caught the rifle in Joe’s lap. He had a bristly red beard and light brown eyes beneath furry red eyebrows. He smiled with yellow teeth and smelled like rotten meat.
“Where you headed?” His voice was deep.
“Going to Chikowa,” Joe said. “My girl is pregnant and she needs a hospital. She’s breech.” That was the story he and Frank had come up with.
The man ducked lower and spied a curious look at the girl.
“You’re nothing but kids,” the man said.
“Our parents died of poxebola. We’re all we got.”
“PB? I heard there was a run of it out here.”
“It’s run out for now.”
“For now,” the man said. “You need anything?”
“We’re okay.”
“You got a ways until you reach the forest. There’s a good camping spot a mile out in a little shantytown of about a hundred scavengers. Nice people but keep a good eye on your stuff. Watch out for marauders along the main road. They’re ruthless.”
“We’re going up through the north,” Joe said, before he realized Frank told him not to tell anyone the true way they were going.
“It’s a lot longer that way. You sure you don’t need anything?”
“We got enough.”
The man squinted off toward the west like he was trying to make something out. There was nothing there but a bleached sky and shimmering heat waves.
“The forest and city aren’t any place for good people.” He shook his head. “We’re headed northwest. To the coast, the ‘promised lands.’ If we make it. Isn’t no other choice.” The man squinted at Joe. “What do you got in there?” He flicked his head toward the back of the wagon.
“Things we need,” Joe said.
The man lowered the barrel of his rifle so it was even with Joe’s head.
“Hate to do this to you, but it’s a matter of survival. You understand?”
Joe didn’t understand. Did the man mean to shoot him? Joe stared out at the caravan and the other three horsemen. Two of them set off galloping toward the wagon, kicking up more dust, until they pulled up beside the rifleman. Joe was afraid to move his head to see what was going on. But out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the pregnant girl. She gripped bunches of her dress in tight little fists and squeezed her feet together.
“We’re not here to rob them blind,” the rifleman said to the others. “Take a few things we need, but leave them enough so they can survive.”
Joe heard the squeak of saddles, the sound of hooves, and then the men rummaging and banging around in the wagon right behind his head.
“A big sack of breadroot,” one of them said. He had a high-pitched voice and Joe wondered if it was a girl, not a man.
Someone cracked open a lid on a plastic water bucket.
“Buckets of water,” came the other voice.
“Grab the sack and take some water,” the rifleman said.
The wagon wobbled as they jumped out. When they rode up beside the rifleman again, he said, “Looks good.” Then the two thieves dashed off toward the caravan. The smaller one, the girl perhaps, was carrying the sack of breadroot. It was the only sack of breadroot they brought, and now it was gone, not even a day into their journey. The other t
hief held one of the plastic buckets of water by the handle, which left only four.
“We got women and children we need to tend to,” the rifleman said. “You understand?”
“No, I don’t understand,” Joe said. “I got a pregnant girl with a baby inside her.”
“We’re all in this together. It’s not personal.”
“It’s personal to us. That’s our stuff you stole.”
“Don’t get all high and mighty on me. We left you plenty. Be grateful.”
After the man rode off, Joe was even more upset. He was upset with himself for allowing this to happen. It was his own fault for being too nervous and for acting like a kid. It made them an easy target. The man must’ve figured out fairly quickly that he could rob them with no trouble. Joe should’ve raised his rifle as soon as the man pulled up, or he should’ve never stopped the wagon. The loss of the breadroot was a big blow. Now they only had the deer jerky, a bag of pinole, and the crate of canned food.
Soon enough, the caravan started moving again. Dust clouded up behind it. Joe decided to stay put until they passed by. The campers were patched together haphazardly with different colored sheets of metal and wood. The wood leaves over the windows were propped open with rods. Women and children peeked out the openings at Joe and the girl. Tied behind the last trailer were two scrawny cows that were no doubt going to be butchered before journey’s end. The dust from the caravan drifted into the cab and floated like a mist until Joe shook the reins and Lester and Sam lurched forward. The dust slowly cleared away. The heat waves wriggling on the horizon blurred the bleached sky and the hills ahead.
Chapter 7
Before nightfall he found a place to camp. After he made a fire, he poured a jar of bean soup into a pot and put it on the fire. He scooped some into a cup for the girl, but when he handed it to her, she didn’t move. He set it on the ground next to her in case she wanted to eat it later. Then he spread the blankets on the ground for a bed and he got the rifle so it would be close. Once he sat down, he unwrapped his recorder that he kept in a square of leather cloth. He made the recorder himself from a block of wood. It took him days. He chopped, whittled, carved, and smoothed the wood into the instrument in his hands. After he twisted the two parts together, he licked the tip of the mouthpiece. He placed his thumb and his fingers on the holes and blew softly. A few mournful notes came out.
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