Strikers

by Ann Christy

  He nods, but looks like he’d rather I not remember that.

  “Well, I think we should bring the boat up more safely on the bank and give some silver to this guy to be passed to whoever comes to get it and ask if they’ll contact Logan’s Crossing so the owner can come and get it. It doesn’t erase the theft, but it does ameliorate it some.”

  I know I’m trying to sell this idea a little too hard, but I really don’t want to have to separate from Connor. Or Maddix for that matter.

  When we were little, he teased us for being pests and generally behaved as any other annoying older brother of a friend, but he was also kind. And he came back for Connor. Even knowing what might happen, he came back and he brought my father with him. I owe him for that.

  After a long, tense moment during which I half expect Maddix to take off for the woods and the boat beyond, he lets out a sigh and says, “Fine. I still say it’s a risk but if that’s what we’re doing, let’s do it and get moving.” He digs in his pocket a moment and holds out a handful of coins toward Jovan.

  Rev has been watching us from above, that same smirk on his face the whole time. I can only guess that he knows exactly what we’re doing and why. His eyes shift at the clinking of the silver and the smirk turns into a smile. It’s a genuine one so I know we made the right decision.

  “We did take the boat and we didn’t pay for it,” Jovan says.

  His cheeks are a little flushed and I could swear I see shame there, even though he had nothing to do with the theft. That he’s using the inclusive “we” as he speaks gives me a warm feeling. Before I even have a chance to think about it, I reach out the few inches between us and give his hand a squeeze, then let it go just as quickly.

  He clears his throat and gives me a sidelong glance before continuing. “We felt we were in a bad position and that seemed like the only option at the time, but it was still wrong and we’d like to return it.”

  I hear Maddix whisper something about laying it on thick but ignore him.

  Rev scrubs a hand across his beard and says, “But you figure it probably isn’t safe to go bring it back if it isn’t safe enough to go to the gate back there. Am I close?”

  Looking up at him, I wonder exactly how many times Rev has had conversations like this. Perhaps not exactly, but at least in general. How many Strikers made it this far? How many people from the Riverlands or wild lands have come here, wanting a better life beyond the wall?

  “Sir…Rev, we have silver and would like to ask if you’d let the gate, and the town, know that the boat is here and perhaps pass the silver to them for us?” Jovan asks, holding out the silver in his palm.

  Perhaps Jovan is laying it on just a little thick, but I can’t think of a better way to ask the favor, and he sounds sincere. He is sincere. I’m not sure Rev believes him, though, because his smile has taken on a decidedly skeptical look and his eyebrows have crept up.

  “We’re serious. Jovan is just really polite,” I call out.

  That makes him laugh and he says, “Well, then, I suggest someone else do the talking until that wears off of him a little. Too much politeness just makes folks suspicious.” His hand goes across his beard again, considering us, then he holds up a finger for us to wait and disappears.

  He’s only gone for a few seconds and when he comes back, he lowers a basket. Inside is a little cloth bag that Jovan takes out without hesitation, slipping his little pile of coins inside. It seems too much. It’s Jovan’s, but realistically, it’s all we have. What if there are bribes later on at the next gate or worse, suppose Rev doesn’t pass it anywhere except into his own pocket.

  I hold my hand over Jovan’s to stop him and ask Rev, “How much is the right amount?”

  He grins that knowing grin again. This guy reads me too well. “Getting a ride across costs a tenth. You took it a whole lot farther, and without permission. There’s a lost catch to consider as well. All told, you could get away with a quarter but if you want a whole lot fewer hard feelings, I’d leave a half ounce. It seems you have more than enough for that,” he says, nodding at the shiny pile.

  We do have that and more. Actually, Jovan has as much as I’ve seen in my entire life just hanging around in his pockets. Still, it’s such a precious amount that it hurts. A quick look at the others tells me I’m not alone. Except Jovan, who is still standing there, ready to keep pouring.

  Once the basket is back up and we’re a whole lot poorer, Rev says, “The owner will get it along with their boat.”

  He directs his words to me and gives me a solemn nod, sensing, I suppose, my inherent skepticism. But I believe him and I’m glad the boat will be returned.

  “You best get going if you’re going to make it today. I’ll pass word that you’ll be coming and that you’re walking on this side, near the wall. Typically, we discourage that but you look harmless enough.”

  The crossbow I can clearly see now that the light is good, plus the rifle in the hands of the man still peering at us from the top of the wall, give me a clue as to how they discourage people. I’m glad we won’t get that kind of discouragement.

  There’s not much more to say but it feels awkward to just turn and leave. Rev makes it easy by saying, “If we hear anything about that fellow following you, I’ll pass it along the sentries along the wall. You just keep moving.”

  Then Rev and the little opening are gone, the thick metal slamming home with a loud bang you could probably hear for a mile. That sets us in motion quick enough. I’ve got no pack and there are just the few bags from the boat to carry, so I’m left without a burden. I wish I had something to carry to keep my hands busy. Before, I could hook my hands into the straps of my backpack and feel occupied, but now they hang free and I’m keenly aware that Jovan’s hands are swinging right next to mine.

  It would be a simple matter to occupy at least one of my hands by holding one of his while we walked. That would be good. But I can’t seem to bring myself to test and see what he would do if I did just grab his hand. In front of the others, I feel exposed for just thinking it.

  Instead, I speed up and tap Cassi’s shoulder so she’ll walk with me. As we chat and walk, talking about what it might be like on the other side and whether or not they’ll really let me sponsor her, I’m constantly aware that Jovan is right behind me. For most of the time, I’m convinced he’s looking at me, his eyes burning along my back.

  Eventually, I feel a tug on my hair and turn to glare at him. He just smiles and holds up a little twig. It must have been in there since the river and that was what was drawing his attention. I’m a little disappointed but I turn around and keep walking.

  Cassi digs into her pocket and hands me a wide-toothed comb, the only kind she can use on her curly hair. With my hands free for the first time in ages, I feel a strong desire to keep them busy. I find some relief over the next hour by patiently combing out the tangles while we walk.

  But I can’t just comb my hair forever while I’m trying to escape with my life. Eventually, it’s once again a smooth curtain down my back and I can’t find a single knot to mess with. And as a bonus, it’s no longer quite so greasy after my long swim in the river.

  After I hand Cassi back her comb, she reaches out and runs some of my hair through her fingers. She sighs and says, “I always wanted long hair like yours. Straight.”

  I laugh because it’s such a ridiculous thing to say. Cassi is as close to perfect as a human can be. But we always want something different than we’re born with, even if what we’re born with is perfect the way it is.

  Whether it’s because we’re on the final leg of our journey and safety is mere miles ahead of us or because the weather is fine, I feel hopeful. That free feeling from before is creeping up on me again and I wonder what it’s like on the other side of this giant wall we walk along. The sentries above seem to be spaced fairly widely, because it’s late morning before we see the next ones popping their heads over the top and whistling to get our attention.

  “Any
news?” Jovan calls up. There’s hope in his voice, too.

  “Nothing good. We just got a call about an hour ago that the man you described came back out of the woods and into town. They wouldn’t rent him a boat or take him as passenger so he’s walking south, downstream.”

  “Did he have a horse?” I ask.

  The man shakes his head and says, “No. One of the ferry guys came over to give us the news and he said someone took off with his horses.”

  “Well, it isn’t all bad news, then,” Cassi calls up, a brilliant smile on her face.

  The man was already looking her way with interest. Now he looks like someone whacked him on the head hard enough that he lost some of his sense. It’s almost comical, but I’ve seen it enough in the past. She doesn’t seem to notice it at all and just keeps smiling, not understanding that some smiles aren’t just smiles.

  “Anything else?” Jovan asks, his expression just a little less open and a little harder. He feels protective of Cassi and this is putting up his hackles. I give his arm a little squeeze and he pulls in a tight breath, pushing it out like I do when I want to get rid of stress or irritation.

  His words seem to shake the sentry out of whatever Cassi-induced fog he was in and he gives us a rueful smile, perhaps aware how we might take his stares. He says, “He’s walking and you’ve got hours on him, but he is walking. You’re still about nine miles and change from the gate so I’d get a move on.”

  With one last wave, he backs out of sight and we move on. It’s not a leisurely stroll and hasn’t been, but we haven’t been pushing it like we should have. That changes and I hear Maddix give a little groan as the strain of the uneven ground takes its toll on his still damaged thigh muscle. He’s a fighter though and he gets through it, using the balls of his thumbs to dig in and loosen the muscles.

  I’m not particularly worried that he’ll be able to catch up with us on his own. Creedy is a lot older than we are and I saw his paunchy belly and the cowboy boots on his feet. He was dressed for the comfort of horseback, not the rigors of walking.

  But that doesn’t mean he won’t find a way to get a ride on a boat or barge. He must have plenty of silver. He may have angered the town in the dead of night, and they may have turned him away in the presence of others, but once away from judging eyes, his silver might be too much to resist. That thought spurs me to move a little faster and the others do as well. It’s not a huge leap to consider that happening, so I’m guessing everyone else had the same thought.

  The hours pass quietly enough, nothing but the sound of the river and the occasional quick exchange of words from another sentry to break the constant rhythm of our footsteps. By late afternoon, we risk a trip past the trees to the riverbank to see what we can see. The last sentry told us we were just a few miles from the gate, and we’ve seen the billowing sails of boats peeking through the foliage more often over the last few hours.

  At the far edge of our vision is one of the most awe-inspiring sights I have ever seen. I can’t even imagine how huge the bridge that must have once stood there was. On each side of the river the supports for the bridge rise so high that even the wall we’ve been walking along seems dwarfed. In the center, another support stands even taller in the water like a giant, intent on guarding the river from all comers. Whatever small parts of the bridge remain attached poke out from the sides like short arms.

  There’s no real indication of a town at this distance, but small dots in the water must be boats with their sails up to catch the ever-present breeze along the river. It’s a walk of less than two hours to get there. We exchange smiles and a few breathless words but that’s all any of us wants to waste time on. I can see it in the eager lines of their bodies, the way they’re half-turned toward the trees. They’re ready to go and get this last bit of distance behind us.

  By the time I can just make out the dark swath that marks a gated section of wall, a sentry peers over the side and whistles for us. He drops a coil of tightly rolled paper weighted with a pebble down to us. We gather to unroll it and find a short note, neatly printed in well-schooled handwriting, letting us know that the coast is clear to the gate.

  It’s like the best present I’ve ever received and I can’t help but reach out and grab Connor and Cassi, the two next to me, around the shoulders in an exuberant hug. It’s catching because soon we’re all doing it, grinning like loons and slapping each other on the backs. The laugh of the sentry above us breaks us up, but he gives us a thumbs-up and that makes it alright.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  At the gate we don’t waste time gawping at the amazing town sprawled across the river, though it’s tempting. Instead, we follow the posted directions and push a button and then back up behind the yellow line painted on the pavement.

  A whir of noise draws my attention to a little box with a tiny red light on it that moves across the line of us like it’s watching us. The glass lens on the front does remind me of the camera we rented once a long time ago, so I assume that must be what it is.

  After an endless moment, a small door opens and I see from the edge of it that it is thicker even than the metal hatch the sentry opened for us this morning. Several inches thick and made of dark metal, it’s inset into a human-sized door, which is further inset into a gate big enough to pass a prairie jumper through. The interior side of it, from the quick look I get, seems banded with yet more metal. These people are very serious about their wall.

  I had hoped, perhaps stupidly, that one of the sentries we talked to might be the one that met us at the gate. It’s completely unreasonable, given that they have stations that they man and the gate is miles away from most of them, but I can’t help feeling fearful of having to explain again.

  The man who looks us over with a guarded expression is older than the sentries, his dark hair graying at the sides, but he’s clean-shaven and his hair is combed with precision. It all screams “official” to me. That’s probably a good thing.

  He stays inside the gate, his head framed by the two-foot-square opening, and takes in our dirty clothes and weary faces. He’s probably seen it plenty of times.

  “You’re the kids from Logan’s Crossing,” he says and it isn’t a question, but I nod and so do the others.

  He purses his lips as he looks us over once more, like he smells something bad emanating from us—which is entirely possible—then glances down to something I can’t see and studies it a moment.

  When his attention returns to us, he looks directly at Maddix, then shifts between Jovan and Connor, finally settling on Connor. He says, “Maddix Blake. And that’s the minor brother you want to sponsor?”

  “Yes,” Maddix says, and the relief is palpable coming off him. “He’s seventeen.”

  “Scooting under the wire then. You come forward first and then we’ll get him,” he instructs and holds up a small, odd-shaped box out of the opening.

  Maddix walks forward and doesn’t seem at all nervous. In fact, he looks like he’s familiar with what’s going on. When the man turns the box, I see a curved protrusion on it and Maddix presses his face to it without any prompting. It beeps after a few seconds and the man takes it down, peeks at the back of it and then smiles at Maddix, like he passed some sort of test.

  “Yep, you’re you. Welcome back to the Southeast and Mississippi Territory,” he says with a smile. I guess he did pass a test, though I can’t imagine what test requires a person to put their face up to a box.

  He holds out another flat and shiny black surface, no thicker than a roof shingle, and it lights up. I can’t see what it’s doing other than emitting a vague blue light, but Maddix sticks his hand on it, fingers splayed just so, and it beeps as well.

  That seems to settle the matter for the man, because he opens the larger, man-sized door and pushes out a cart, the top of it covered with neatly arranged objects. He’s dressed rather oddly, in a way I imagined wealthy people dressed only inside their homes. His bright green shirt has something embroidered above the left b
reast pocket and his khaki pants are very neatly pressed. There’s not a stain anywhere and even his shoes are clean and new-looking.

  He’s slender, too, but very fit. It’s odd, how new and perfect he looks to be so old. People tend to look worn with age in Texas, but this guy looks like he’s spent his whole life indoors or something. Kind of unused looking. It’s a bit unsettling and it makes me aware of how dirty I am, even after my long dip in the river.

  “Let’s get your brother first, shall we?” he asks, his tone friendly but officious, sort of like the school administrator when I go register each year.

  The man hands Maddix another of those shiny black shingle-looking things and he studies it, tapping the surface every now and then while he does. Connor gets the box to his face, then his hand on a shingle, but it doesn’t stop there. The man scrubs the inside of Connor’s cheek with a small brush, pricks his finger and all sorts of other things that look altogether frightening.

  I try to move closer, so I can hear the quiet instructions the man gives to Connor, but he gives me a look and waves me backward. “No cross-contamination,” he says by way of explanation.

  When Maddix is done with his part, he puts the shingle on the cart and jogs over to talk to us. There’s no way he can miss the confusion on our faces.

  “Okay, I know this looks weird, but remember how we talked about your pendant being coded to you, your DNA only?” he asks, pointing to my necklace.

  I nod, no wiser.

  “They get your DNA from your cheek and a second sample from your blood. That thing they held up to my eyes? That’s a retina scanner and it’s a quick way of confirming who you are if they have it on record. Same with the fingerprints on that tablet,” he explains.

  Since Maddix got sponsored by my father and is a citizen, I assume that is why he’s on record. And that would mean that Connor is getting his record done right now. Which means we’re next.

  When Connor gets finished and he sucks on the finger the man jabbed, he looks a little stunned. All those gadgets and all that touching by a stranger must have been unsettling, but he smiles so I guess he’s alright.