by Joe Hart
Zoey is about to reach the front of the house when she stops and turns back to the children. “What did you say about John?”
“He’s the fastest,” Michael says earnestly.
“No, you said when he gets back. Where is he?”
“At Pastor Rogers’s house. He lives a few miles, uh, that way,” Michael says, pointing in the direction of the highway.
“What’s he doing there?” she asks, an icy tingling beginning to grow in the base of her stomach.
“Telling Pastor Rogers and the rest of our church about you so they can celebrate. He’ll be back soon.”
Zoey locks eyes with Eli, who is already moving. “I’ll get the others,” he says, hurrying around the building.
Ian stops beside the youngest boy. “What’s the matter?”
“Travis’s oldest son went to tell their pastor about us.”
“Oh no.”
They hurry to the front porch, where Eli and Tia are talking with Merrill and Chelsea. Travis is in the doorway, hands held out in a placating gesture.
“You have nothing to fear,” he is saying. “Nothing at all. John is very obedient. He’ll return soon with our pastor and you’ll see. This is a blessed night.”
“You sent him?” Zoey asks. “You sent your son to tell others about us? About me?”
Travis smiles. “Yes. But there’s no need for alarm. Our community is close knit. They will relish your presence and it will sustain their hope for years to come simply by seeing a woman as young as you are.”
She is about to swear at him when a sound rises above the slight wind.
Engines.
Several of them.
When she looks again at Travis, a frown has creased his brow. He stares past them down the long drive and steps close to the porch railing.
“That’s not right,” he says. “The pastor doesn’t have a vehicle.”
Zoey’s head spins, thoughts whirring past faster than she can reckon them. “We have to go. Now!” she yells. She begins to run around the side of the building, Merrill catching up with her at once. “Where’s the ASV?”
“Behind that farthest stand of trees by the river.”
“Go. I’ll be right there.” He yells something at her but she’s already gone, around the back of the house. She sprints to the small wooden door set there and almost bowls Anniel over as she pushes it open from the inside. Isaac is in her arms, eyes wide and shining in the near dark.
“Come on,” Zoey says, grasping the other woman’s arm. “You have to come with us. The boys too, everyone.”
“Travis said to get in the cellar.”
“They’ll find you. You need to come with us.” She tries to yank Anniel with her but the woman moves in the opposite direction. Three small shadows race out of the house, running ahead of their mother as Isaac looks back in Zoey’s direction, whimpering quietly.
“They’re going to kill you,” Zoey hisses, an almost irresistible force dragging her in the direction of the ASV.
An engine revs somewhere beyond the house and a powerful light slices across the tops of the nearest trees.
Anniel pauses at a rough rectangle of darkness that’s opened in the ground before her, then vanishes inside it as if swallowed whole.
Zoey turns and runs.
Her feet slip in the heavy dew that’s becoming frost with the falling night and the lower part of her spine sends a lightning bolt of pain down her left leg as she catches herself and continues. Numbness floods her thighs.
No. Not now. Not now. Can’t fall. They’ll find me. Can’t fall.
The engines are nearer, loud against the field’s broken tranquility. She glances left as she enters the long grass and gains sight of the house’s front yard.
Three vehicles are parked there, vivid orbs of light blazing from their grilles and cabs. Travis is walking toward them, hands out as they were before, his thin body outlined like ink on a white page.
“I’m alone except for my son! Where is my son?”
A gunshot rings out and Travis’s head rocks back, knees folding as he pitches forward and falls to his stomach on the driveway.
Zoey cuts off the moan that tries to come from her chest and plunges into the long grass, its touch wetting her pant legs instantly.
The ASV. It’s their only hope. Inside they have a chance of breaking through, of outrunning or at least buying some time since the armored vehicle will protect them from gunfire.
The strong light begins to sweep toward her across the field, igniting the trees and bushes to her left.
She pitches forward, falling hard on her side as the light passes over, tingeing the dead grass white. She breathes hard, breath pluming above her until she realizes that anyone watching will see it highlighted there, and covers her mouth and nose with her shirt collar.
The seconds tick by.
Her left leg is numb to the knee, the crawling deadness seeping down into her calf.
Men’s voices float across the night. One yells a high, piercing shriek followed by stuttering laughter. Another gunshot rings out and it is then she hears something that shrivels her heart in on itself.
Isaac’s short, wailing cry.
It warbles to her, slightly muffled, but unmistakable. There are several whoops and more gunshots before a man’s voice cries out to cease fire.
They’re going to find them. She has to do something.
Zoey yanks her handgun free, flicking the safety off as she sits up. A large truck is parked to the closest side of the house, a spotlight mounted in its bed. The light points to the ground in front of the bumper and a man stands near the tailgate, a rifle propped against one hip. She searches the night for any figures nearby and sees nothing. Two men appear from the back of the house and begin sweeping flashlights across the lawn.
She can do it. She can save them if she goes now.
Zoey pushes herself up to a crouch, another bolt of pain flashing through the leg that isn’t numb. She’s about to launch herself up and sprint for the shrub nearest the house when two hands grasp her arms and yank her back into the grass.
A scream wells up inside her and she brings the handgun around, but a rough palm covers her mouth, another grasping her wrist.
“Stop, Zoey, it’s me,” Merrill whispers in her ear. The fight goes out of her and he takes his hand from her mouth.
“They’re going to find them.”
“Come on, crawl after me. It’s only another hundred yards.”
“No. We have to stop them.”
“There’s nothing we can do. There’s at least twenty of them, heavily armed. They’d kill us all.”
Isaac’s cries continue to drift to them and tears film her vision. “Please, Merrill.”
There is a single pop and a man’s strangled cry, followed by a chatter of automatic rifle fire.
Then complete silence.
Zoey curls onto her side, soundless sobs strangling her. Merrill places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. A series of yells come from near the house, followed by a hoarse exclamation of pain. But everything is muted background noise, her hearing deadened like her entire left leg. She lies there, crying silently into the rough, dying grass and cold ground as Merrill holds her.
After an unknowable amount of time, the spotlight dances across their hiding place, turning her vision into a thousand fractured jewels. Zoey wipes at her eyes even as Merrill whispers into her ear.
“They’re coming. Be ready to shoot. Ready to run.”
Footsteps, crackling closer and closer. A pause. Then voices.
“The fuck I gotta look out here for, man? I’m the wounded one. I should be in the truck.”
“You messed up, Brad. You killed the woman. The only thing we came here for.”
“The hell was I supposed to do. Bitch shot me in the fuckin’ hand. Blew off two fingers. Hurts like a bastard. Besides, there’s no one else here. Fuckin’ kid was full of shit. Ain’t no girl. Ain’t no military truck.”
�
��What am I supposed to tell the Prestons?”
A long quiet filled only by the breeze. “You tell ’em we didn’t find nothin’. Buncha guys and that’s it.”
“See, there’s where we run into the problem, Brad. Everyone else saw what happened same as I did. And someone will tell the Prestons when we get back to the trade, and if it’s not me, then I’m the one in a shit heap.”
“We’ll think of somethin’. Come on, man, my fuckin’ hand is killin’ me.”
“Here, let me help you.”
The click of a hammer being drawn back is loud and the injured man’s shocked cry is drowned out by the gunshot. Zoey flinches and Merrill’s fingers dig into her shoulder. She gazes through the grass surrounding them but can’t see the remaining man, though she can hear him clearly. He hawks and spits.
The minutes pass with agonizing slowness.
Finally the grass rasps with his departure, footsteps growing fainter each second.
“Burn it!” the executioner yells in the distance. An engine rumbles to life and after another span there is a woof of yellow light that grows exponentially, gradually gilding the tips of the wilting grass gold.
Engines howl. Gravel crunches and sprays, rattling off stone. The mechanical rumble decreases, flowing away as if the volume of the entire world is being turned down, leaving only the static hiss of flames.
Zoey slowly sits up, Merrill rising beside her.
The stone house’s roof is ablaze.
The few windows that line the sides are broken, flames licking out and upward like orange tongues. She can feel the heat from where she sits.
“Come on, Zoey. Let’s go in case they come back.”
She doesn’t move, only stares at the growing inferno, fire leaping twenty or more feet into the sky.
“Zoey. We have to go.” Merrill lifts her from the ground, holding on to her arm. He tries to guide her away but she yanks free of his grip, forcing her traitorous leg to hold her.
“We should’ve done something,” she says, not looking away from the flames.
“We were outnumbered, outgunned. They would have killed us.”
“It was them, wasn’t it? It was the trade.”
A long pause. “Yes.”
“They’re close.”
“Yes.”
Zoey turns away from the burning house, tears evaporated by the heat. “Then let’s go find them.”
23
Wen stares at the meat sizzling in the small frying pan, eyes unfocused, hands hanging by her sides.
“You’re going to burn those,” Robbie says from the other side of the trailer.
She comes out of her stupor and stabs the steaks with a two-pronged fork, flipping them. The smell that wafts up from the pan is enough to make her salivate. She hasn’t eaten beef in months.
“You mind your own,” she says, not looking at him.
Robbie finishes chopping the last potatoes, dropping them into a stainless steel pot, and brandishes his knife. “I’ve killed for less.”
She smiles wanly. “You’ve never hurt a fly.”
“No. Not a fly I guess. But some big damn spiders that I used to find in my apartment. And don’t get me started on cockroaches.”
Wen removes the pan from the heat, covering it to let the steak rest for a minute. She moves the two plates onto the gas cookstove’s stand, the sides of the Prestons’ meals already in place. She lets her gaze become fuzzy again, everything fading into a blur. She could live this way, all things out of focus. Nothing substantial enough to recognize. But maybe she already is.
“Hey, are you listening to me?” Robbie asks.
“I’m sorry, no, I wasn’t.”
He finishes wiping down the narrow work counter mounted to the trailer’s wall and moves to her. Bending down a little so their eyes meet, he grasps her hand. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. We haven’t got a choice. In all the time we’ve been planning this, we always knew we wouldn’t be able to take anyone from the containers with us.”
“I know that.”
“Then nothing’s changed.”
“I promised him. I looked him right in the eyes and promised that I would get him and his wife out.”
“And I promised Luke from marketing that I’d call him after our first date twenty-five years ago. Sometimes things don’t work out.”
“Robbie . . .”
“I’m sorry, trying to lighten the mood.” He sighs and squeezes her hand. “I know how much this kills you; it’s one of the reasons I love you, but no new angles have presented themselves to us in the last few days. Nothing’s changed. Our only option is the one that you came up with originally, and it will be a miracle if we’re able to pull that off.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, maybe when the king and queen are dead, things will change. Maybe the trade will die with them and the women and men in the containers will be set free.”
“You know as well as I do that will never happen. Someone else will step into their place and continue their work.”
She turns from him and transfers the steaming steaks from the pan to the plates. Covering them, she starts for the open doorway at the opposite end of the trailer.
“Nothing is ever perfect. You know that,” Robbie calls after her.
The air outside is cooler now, even in the bright sunshine of midday. The highway the trade sits on is partially hemmed in on the north by an encroaching forest of pines. To the west the land drops away into rolling hills dotted with bunches of homes, all quiet and empty, their occupants long dead or moved on.
She walks up the line of vehicles and trailers similar to the mobile kitchen she cooks out of during the day while on the road. Second in line behind an armored semitruck and trailer is a large recreational vehicle, its paint a dusty brown highlighted with worn gold swirls that have lost their sparkle. Two guards stand outside, rifles hanging from slings. One of them pats her down, his hands surprisingly gentle. He touches her only where he needs to before ushering her inside. One of the decent ones, she thinks, climbing the few stairs into the vehicle.
Sasha sits in the nearest seat beside one of the long windows, what looks like a tall glass of water beside her. But Wen knows if she were to take a sip from the woman’s drink she would taste pure vodka. Sasha flicks her eyes to the plates then away, one long finger running around and around the lip of her glass.
Hemming stands at the far back of the RV, cadaverous eyes watching her come down the aisle. Elliot sits at the largest table across from a man with long, dark hair tied back now in a ponytail. James Horner glances at her as she approaches and she has to stifle the shock that tries to crease her features into a grimace.
“Ah, lunch. Thank you, dear,” Elliot says, motioning for Wen to set the plates on the table. He draws off the covers and immediately the scent of cooked steak fills the air. “My goodness. You’ve outdone yourself this time.” Elliot inhales the steam coming off his plate and smiles at her. “What a fortunate occurrence it was to meet that man with the heads of beef.”
“Not for him it wasn’t,” Wen says.
The smile slides from Elliot’s face. “Sasha, darling, lunch is served.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sasha says from the front.
“But dear, you have—”
“I don’t have to do anything, darling.” Sasha takes a long drink of liquor and looks away out the window.
“Traveling always affects her appetite,” Elliot says. “My dear, if you please?” He motions at both plates and Wen comes forward, cutting off a slight chunk of each steak. She puts them both in her mouth and chews, taking samples of the roasted potatoes and black beans as well. James watches her intently the entire time.
“I was just telling James here how much of an asset you are to the entire troupe. Without you I’m sure most of us would have died of malnutrition or simply killed ourselves from the lack of culinary variety.”
“I do my best.”
“And we are thankful. Just
as we’re thankful for our new doctor.”
Wen blinks, eyes moving from Elliot to James and back again. “What do you mean?”
“Without James here we never would have known what killed our captain, would we? A terrible thing, not knowing. Afterward I invited James to stay on as our resident doctor since we were in great need of one, and he embraced the position gladly.”
“I’m not really a doctor,” James says, smiling up at Wen.
“Nonsense. In this new world we are all what is needed of us. Entertainment is in Sasha’s and my blood. None of us could exist without purpose. It would simply be chaos. Don’t you agree, James?”
“Oh yes. Most definitely.”
“Choice is sometimes a very dangerous thing. Logic and common sense will always be the true north of humankind’s compass. It is those that fly in the face of rational decisions that suffer.” His expression changes as if he’s tasted something sour. “Those that never listen or heed competent warnings. They are life’s greatest folly.” He sits silently for a moment, staring through his meal, through the table. At last he comes back to the present and nods. “Yes, I believe deep down we were all meant for something, and to deny our calling is to deny what truly makes us human.” Elliot slides his plate closer and picks up a knife and fork. “Since Sasha isn’t feeling up to it, would you like to partake, James?”
“Oh, no thank you, sir. I actually should look in on one of the guards who is down with the stomach flu before we continue,” James says, rising from his seat. “Out of curiosity, when will we be arriving at the next community?”
Elliot places a large chunk of steak in his mouth and chews before answering. “It depends on when our latest reconnaissance party returns, but we should make Southland by tomorrow evening and be set up by midnight at the latest.”
“When will, um, the contests begin?”
“The following day. I trust you’ve made your peace with this?”
James draws in a deep breath and finally nods. “Yes.”
“Good. You’ll see, James. Your life will have so much more meaning doing what you’ve been made for.”