Carry the Flame

by James Jaros

  “It’s right below us.” Miranda crouched and put her hand on the stone. “Go ahead, you can feel it.”

  Cassie joined her, and a slight vibration filled her palm. “What about the waterfall?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not gone.” Miranda stood, letting Steph take her hand again. “The river comes back up. But you just don’t want to go in it anywhere around here ’cause there’s no getting out for a while.”

  I’m not going to do that, Cassie vowed to herself. When she was swimming underwater, just thinking about the massive stone ceiling had scared her. The possibility of being entombed in rock and river was horrifying.

  The narrow passage opened abruptly to light-colored chambers that appeared to billow larger and larger, like the huge white clouds that could suddenly crowd the sky. Each gap in the ceiling grew, too. Her eyes were drawn to them before she spotted the river again, and the garden. Raised beds were spread over two acres, bigger than the entire camp she’d lived in with her family.

  As they walked past rows of lush green plants, Miranda identified a bewildering variety of produce: “Radishes, parsnips, jalapeno peppers, red peppers, green peppers, carrots, spaghetti squash, corn, beans, okra, blueberries, strawberries . . .”

  Cassie had heard of berries, but didn’t know most of the vegetables. She had an almost insatiable desire to eat everything—leaves, stalks, husks, roots. A hunger, deep and abiding, startled her. Even after breakfast her body felt emptier than ever. And still Miranda went on, oblivious to the most miraculous vision of her life: “ . . . cantaloupes, onions, potatoes, leeks . . .”

  Tears dampened the young girl’s cheeks. All of this, she thought. That was what she kept repeating to herself. All of this. Words that came as a prayer, maybe the only one that had mattered in her short life. Then she thought, Everyone should have this. She wiped her face before her new friends could see her sadness and joy.

  They came to three farmers forming a widely spaced bucket brigade by a bed of tomato plants near the middle of the garden. Miranda introduced Cassie to the two women and man. They looked up briefly but never stopped emptying the water they’d drawn from the river. None offered more than a simple greeting. Cassie promptly forgot their names. She wished she could forget William that easily. What did he mean about fitting her through some tight spot in the catacombs? If you kept your wits about you. That sounded scary. She wanted to ask about him, but Miranda filched half a dozen snap peas from the last of the beds, then ducked behind rocks to divvy up the shiny pods equally. Cassie bit right into one.

  The older girl laughed. “You’re smiling.”

  “This is so sweet. It’s like candy,” Cassie exclaimed. Not that she’d ever eaten candy, but she’d heard about it plenty. Finding a big cache of chocolate or licorice or mints was one of the most popular fantasy games on the caravan. Candy was supposed to be the sweetest taste in all creation, but she told Miranda she couldn’t imagine anything sweeter than the peas.

  “Raspberries and strawberries,” the older girl said knowingly. “But they’re really hard to steal, and the farmers get kind of mad. It’s a special dessert.” Miranda had to explain dessert to her. The concept proved as exotic as an underground river would have sounded twenty-four hours ago.

  “You have it really good down here,” Cassie said.

  Miranda leaned against a boulder. “We do have it good,” she said thoughtfully. “But girls can never leave. It’s so dangerous for us up there. It’s even dangerous for the older women when they go.”

  “So it’s like a prison for you?”

  “Best prison ever. You’ll see.”

  “What about the boys?”

  “When they’re sixteen, they have to start living up in the cars for two weeks out of every month.”

  “Why?”

  “To make those idiots at the City of Shade think that’s how we really live. My mom calls the wrecking yard a ‘Potemkin village.’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  “A pretend place, I think. I’m not sure. But it fools the fools. She says they’re not exactly the National Brain Trust. The trading we do with them is all pretend, too. We keep them supplied with vegetables, but everything comes from down here. So we have to dry them out and make them look kind of crappy, like they came from far away.”

  “What do you get from them?”

  “They don’t kill us.” Miranda nodded emphatically. “Really, I’m not kidding. It’s not like we get anything else from them. They thought they were doing us a big favor by showing us a way through a minefield so our ‘traders’ could go get stuff.”

  “What’s a minefield?” Cassie asked. She’d heard about land mines last night when she was falling asleep, but she wasn’t sure what they were.

  “They’re bombs they put under the sand, and if you step on them, they blow up.”

  That’s right. Jessie and Burned Fingers had warned the kids about land mines when the caravan started across the Great American Desert.

  “They can even blow up a whole car,” Miranda continued. “So that’s why our people had to go and steal—”

  This time Miranda interrupted herself, as if she realized that she was about to reveal more than she should.

  “What?” Cassie pried. “Just tell me. Who am I going to tell?”

  “Just that showing us a way through the minefield was a joke. And you want to know why?” Miranda didn’t pause for an answer. “Because we’d already taken them all out!”

  She beamed, and Cassie doubted Miranda could have stopped herself from bragging about the land mines for all the snap peas in the world. Smiling proudly, the older girl added, “But the City of Shade is still really dangerous. They’re killing people and taking slaves, and sooner or later they’re going to figure out the mines are missing. Like when you and Sam got away last night? If those idiots see your footprints, even they are going to wonder why the mines didn’t blow up. I’ll bet anything that’s why Sam and those guys were back in the catacombs today. William’s our mine expert. Did you see the wire sticking out of his bag?”

  “I was going to ask about that.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s for the mines. And then he said that stuff about you fitting through something in there.”

  “What do you think he meant?” Cassie asked.

  Miranda shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never gone in there, and I never want to; they go on and on for a long ways. But sometimes they’re in that place for days at a time, and they never say what they’re doing. I spy on them all the time, and they don’t breathe a word about the catacombs. It’s the biggest secret of all.”

  “So you really don’t know?” Cassie asked.

  “I really don’t.”

  “Maybe it’s just a safe place to get rid of the mines,” Cassie said. “It’s where all the bodies got dumped, right?”

  “Except they went right back in there after you guys ran across a minefield, and right when there’s supposed to be some big fight or something tomorrow night. And you saw Sam and them. Why would they need shovels to throw away mines? You don’t want to bury them. You want to see those things. And what about the wires, and trying to squeeze you through something? I think putting in mines is the only thing that makes sense, except I don’t know how putting them in there can hurt the idiots. But William’s up to something, and Sam and my mom are always saying we can’t just sit around hoping they don’t find out what’s going on down here.”

  “But would they really use mines?” That sounded horrible to Cassie, to have someone walking along and getting blown up.

  “We have to protect ourselves,” Miranda said solemnly. “Follow me.”

  She raced ahead until she came to a fork. On the right, where the river continued, another huge canyon appeared, its walls yellowed by sunshine. But on the left, a separate, dimly lit space loomed with a long, rectangular raised bed. Instead of vegetables or fruit, it held sharp sticks. Each one pointed upward.

  Breathlessly, Miranda
said, “They’re punji sticks, except we make them from bones. That’s the other thing we use them for. There are three hundred of them in there. I know ’cause I helped bury them in rocks. If we’re ever attacked again, that’s our last resort if someone gets past the mines we put up there.”

  “So you guys are using them?”

  “Up there we are,” Miranda said. “They were going to use them on us sooner or later, or on people like you out in the desert, so you bet we planted them. We have to protect ourselves,” she repeated. “It’s the end of the world for us if any of those idiots get a look at our garden. That’s why we also have a bunch of warning signs up there.”

  “For the mines?” Cassie hoped so.

  “No, not for the mines. That would give them away. For radiation. They’re signs with a weird symbol that tells people to stay away because it’s super radioactive.” Miranda had to explain about the poison. “Some of our explorers found tons of signs around an old nuclear plant that melted down. It was near where the earthquake destroyed Lake Michigan. We put them by the openings up there,” she glanced at the ceiling, “but especially near the ones over the garden.”

  “And that keeps them away?”

  “Maybe. Radiation killed so many people, it should scare the crap out of them, but we don’t know if they’ve even seen them yet. There are lots of dunes, and they hardly ever come by. We’re always the ones to take the food to them, and the garden’s about two miles from the wrecking yard. But even if they did see the signs, they might not believe them. People stopped believing all kinds of scientific stuff a long time ago. Even stuff about the warming. So that’s why the signs are just the first thing to keep them away. Then we have the mines.”

  Cassie eyed the pointy bones. “So how’s that the last resort?”

  “If the signs don’t stop them, and they get past the mines, we have a great plan.” Miranda clapped her hands excitedly and pointed to the ceiling above the bones. “There’s a long opening up there, except we covered it with wood from an old barn. Then we put sand on it. So guess who’s going to make sure those idiots come running across it so they’ll fall onto our punji sticks?”

  “Who?” Cassie asked, cringing as she imagined the mayhem.

  “Us! Girls. The only ones they’ll come after, no matter what. We’ll be heroes. And now guess what? That includes you!”

  Jester knew he was down a quart, at least. He’d just finished searching another row and was dryer than a desert toad. Worse, he would have to start rationing his water. He’d been too damned lazy to lug more than he thought he could squeeze by with. Story of his life. He sure couldn’t go back to the City of Shade for refills. Showing up without iddy biddy bitch might be all the excuse they’d need to throw him to the Brothers Grim.

  There had to be a damn water pump around here somewhere. Now he wished he’d made that lazy, hairy bastard fess up. But he hadn’t been so dry then, and it was so much fun running him off. The scum sure hadn’t looked thirsty, now that he thought about it. None of them did. They didn’t look hungry, either. Jester figured they must do all right trading, and it made him wonder if he’d picked the wrong profession when he decided on killing.

  And will ya look at this. Broken glass on the floor of an accordioned Escalade. Every window in the yard picked clean, but nobody had bothered to scavenge glass all ready to use? That was downright strange. He’d always heard yard scum were deprived, broken asswipes, but deprived broken asswipes should look hungry and thirsty, and they sure as hell shouldn’t be turning their noses up at broken glass. Nobody did. You could make a knife or spear tips with them. Hell, guys chipped away on rock walls till their fingers bled just to break off a sliver half as sharp as the glass he was scooping up. There was no figuring this, and it stoked his suspicion.

  He’d seen lots of desperate people, had the pleasure of killing more than his fair share, and he could always tell at a glance if they were scared shitless. Like the ones on the caravan yesterday. They were running around batshit crazy, almost as much fun as the crew that came staggering through six months ago. Hey, that was a party.

  But he didn’t sense much fear in the yard scum. He’d tried to stare down a guy with a nice-looking knife. When the bastard actually stared back, Jester knew he wasn’t getting that blade without giving up blood. In fact, he had a strong feeling that without the City of Shade nearby, some of those fuckers would have skewered and roasted him for the meat on his handsome bones.

  He moved on to a Pontiac Grand Prix, front-ended with paint so blistered he couldn’t be sure of the color. Blue? Black? He shrugged. But the wreck still had a rear seat big enough for two skinny ones. But what Jester didn’t see was making him look askance. The backseat would have made a nice hovel, like some of the others he’d come across, but there wasn’t much evidence of anyone living there, like a hoard of hand tools, or utensils carved out of the dashboard, or nuts and bolts that might come in handy someday. And what about combs, keys, nail files, coins, all the shit you found under car seats? None of those little treasures had been set aside. No tiny altars or crosses. Wouldn’t you at least want to scratch your name into something on the car? Make a claim to a spot sweet as this? Jester sure would have.

  He thought he might have been the first guy from the City of Shade to shakedown the wrecking yard since they slaughtered a bunch of scum six years ago. They could be up to all kinds of trouble. It didn’t pass his notice that if something were amiss, and he figured out what, he’d move back up the city’s food chain, which would put a cozy distance between the Brothers Grim and him.

  He climbed out of the Grand Prix and edged into a crumpled VW Camper. Even weirder in there. This was a home on wheels, and, sure, it had been T-boned, but he found plenty of living space for an enterprising guy, even a blanket and small pile of rags that might have served as a pillow. Sure signs of habitation. Or were they?

  Jester wasn’t long on brains, but he’d survived with the feral instincts of a predatory creature; and while his gut had failed him of late and left him burned and half blind, he’d always had an unerring ability to look at a nest of any size and know whether it was abandoned, or empty on a strictly temporary basis. Even better, if a good nosing around would turn up some tender young ones to eat, he could suss it out in seconds.

  He hadn’t been dwelling on how strange everything was. He’d just been noticing the disconnects. But all that noticing was forcing him to think, and he couldn’t help thinking the wrecking yard might be nothing more than a big shell game. And where was the prize in a shell game? No secret about that. It was always under something. Just like water.

  Find it, he told himself, and you’ve got a good shot at finding iddy biddy bitch.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bedlam in the sidecar drowned out the Harley’s throaty rumble. Jaya had suffered the shriveling desert heat quietly, but now banged his elbows against the cage and began to babble. When Hunt glared at him, the fifteen-year-old gripped his own arms, as if to still himself. But then he started rocking raucously from side to side, and his gibber grew louder. Esau, holding his master’s hips, watched to see what he would do.

  Four times Hunt had stopped the old motorcycle, grabbed one of the steel canisters stored inches from the kid, and made a splashy show of satisfying his thirst. Four times Hunt shared water freely with him while Jaya begged. Four times Hunt leaned into the cage, seized the teen’s neck and warned him not to touch a drop, “Or I’ll punish you in the name of God Almighty.”

  The clamor in the sidecar now ended in a frenzy: Jaya grabbed a canister, twisted off the top in a single frantic motion, and drank greedily, gasping loudly between gulps.

  This time Hunt shut off the Harley, easing off the seat without haste. They were surrounded by endless reaches of white sand and undulating waves of heat. Hunt once told his slave that a temperature of 137 degrees had been recorded in the Great American Desert. The dead zone only became hotter since anyone had seen a working thermometer.

&
nbsp; Hunt grinned, looking pleased that the heat had wreaked horror on the kid. He drew his short knife, the one he used for paring his nails and other cuts of a precise, implacable order.

  Esau trailed his master around the motorcycle. Hunt unlocked the cage once more. Oddly, Jaya appeared happy, or relieved, legs a-sprawl in his chopped-off pants.

  But when Hunt swung the door open, Jaya shrank back. The creaking metal might have shaken him from a stupor.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he croaked. He held out the canister to Hunt, who swatted it away, letting the last drops drain.

  “Get out,” he ordered, brandishing his knife.

  Esau watched his master step back, perhaps to give the boy room—or the chance to make another mistake. The sun felt corrosive, like it could blister the backs of beetles.

  Jaya didn’t move, his fear palpable. Esau had suffered similar dread many times, but the slave also anticipated the youth’s punishment—and the wanton role he himself would play. Pleasure filled his belly and weakened his legs. They trembled, and he wondered if Hunt was shaking, too, as his master had on the bike when he first warned the youth about touching the provisions.

  Jaya stared at the slave’s obvious arousal. The boy looked scared. Esau smiled at him. The kid turned away, like he wanted to explode from the cage and never stop running.

  He was young and strong. A man, the slave assured himself. Not a boy, not anymore.

  “Fair skin, fair hair, fair game,” Hunt said, marking the moment when the punishment would begin.

  He leaned into the cage and coolly knifed Jaya from his knee to his foot. The kid bled profusely but uttered no cry. His blue eyes appeared dry, large, unblinking, already retreating to the mortal anonymity of sand.

  Esau watched his master grip the red blade in his mouth sideways. The slave had never seen anyone do that. He wanted to kiss Hunt where the steely edge parted his blood-reddened lips. In that sudden madness, he wanted his master to cut him, too.

  Instead, Hunt dragged the boy out. The youth seemed drained of resistance, or fearful that to fight would only add to his terror. A moment later he vomited, spilling clear sickness onto the sand. The water that had swelled his stomach left him steeply fated. Any fool could see that.