Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  I don’t look back at him. I know his tone is joking. My shoes are no better than his tire-rubber boots, but mine are dyed blue, government issued.

  We walk on and I begin to feel less sore as I warm up to the hike. The birds chirp above us, one in particular has a pleasant melody. I am less afraid, too. And the farther we get from Exodia the less burdened I am. These people expect me to be some kind of hero-leader. That’s not going to happen. I’ll blend in with the Reds, learn their ways, help where I can, and someday go back to find Lydia. But not to attack and win back Exodia. Ronel may want someone who knows Exodia as well as I do, but there’s no way these people can match my grandfather’s arsenal, man-power, and psychic advantage.

  I press my hand against one of my belt sacks, remembering the stolen ledger papers there. The papers crinkle. I hope there’s something on them that will help David Ronel. He may let that be the extent of my contribution. I’ll read them when we camp tonight.

  Vinn stops suddenly, ducks down, and motions for us to do the same. We crouch uncomfortably among the low ferns. He makes some coded hand gestures to Carter who nods sharply and puts his hand on my shoulder. He mouths directions: stay down, stay quiet.

  Vinn inches forward, discards his pack and his stinky vest, and pulls a double action Stun-n-Run gun from his back pocket. I ache to open my food bag. Lydia said it also contained a couple of weapons. I should have checked it before we left, put a weapon in easier reach.

  Carter shrugs off his bag, intending to back up Vinn. He, too, has a weapon ready. It’s a hammer, kind of crude, but effective in close quarters. I still don’t hear anything unusual, but I notice that the birds are no longer singing.

  Vinn and Carter rise slowly and creep ahead. I feel useless, helpless. I, who so recently raised a deadly fist against a stranger, am cowering in the weeds like a child. I risk some deliberate moves–I settle both bags to the ground and explore the outer pocket of the food bag. A knife. Just a cooking knife. Sheathed in a metal jacket that has probably protected its serrated edge for decades.

  I grip the handle and rise, keeping the sharp metal sleeve in my left hand–an extra weapon for something deadly I’ve been trained to do.

  I hear shouts, followed by the sounds of men fighting. Grunts and human growls. Cries of pain. A woosh, then a high-pitched whistling followed by an explosion.

  I’m already running in their direction when my name is called. I slide down an incline and dive through heavy brush, knife ready. I take in a gory sight, much worse than my simple bloodless murder. Two men are lying quite still, quite dead, quite bloody, and then my brain unravels all the clues. Two Blue soldiers are sprawled face up, but they have no faces. I want to laugh at my first impression. I start to laugh, catch myself, turn and vomit. I haven’t missed the most important clue: Vinn is lying there, too, not quite still, not quite dead, but very, very bloody.

  “Help me,” Carter commands.

  I sheath the knife, clumsily tuck it in my first belt sack, and kneel next to Vinn. Together Carter and I get him to his feet and up the hill.

  * * *

  We waste precious minutes deciding what is best for Vinn. He argues for what is best for me.

  Vinn’s wound is serious, too serious for him to continue on, but also too dangerous for him to go back alone. His face shines pale and waxy as a corpse. I offer to return with them, but Vinn, between gasps and groans, and slumped against a tree trunk, insists that it is more urgent than ever to get me far away. The soldiers have tracked me, he believes, and he curses himself for not checking my bags or boots for a tracking device. I assure him that nothing could be further from the truth. Such technology has lapsed and besides, there was never any chance for anyone to plant anything on me.

  Suddenly I remember my solar phone and pull it out of my belt sack. Dead. Totally dead until it catches the light and begins to power up. I turn it off, remove the solar cells, and crush the phone against a rock.

  My eyes stay down. My guilt triples as I realize I’m to blame for two more deaths, maybe three if anything happens to Vinn.

  “You take him back,” I say to Carter. “Just point me in the right direction. I can find my way.” Carter frowns.

  Vinn cries out in pain, shakes his head and curses himself again, this time for mishandling his home-made explosives. “Just go with him, Carter,” he manages to gasp.

  Carter is squatting next to Vinn, pressing green leaves against his chest. He looks up at me and points. His simple gesture says much more than his usual rambling banter.

  I wordlessly offer Carter some of my coins, but I’m insulting him; he waves me off. He gets Vinn back onto his feet, shoulders one of their bags, and puts his other arm around Vinn’s waist. The two of them trudge off without me.

  Vinn will hobble on thinking I am trailing behind against his wishes. But I’m not. I empty out both of my backpacks. I rummage through Vinn’s forgotten bag and repack only the food and items I want into my two bags, splitting the money among my belt sacks, pockets, and the bags. With the food, weapons, and coins balanced evenly on my back I trudge off alone.

  Chapter 6 Death March

  From the first page of the Ledger:

  He will rescue the poor Reds from oppression and violence. He will rise up against the usurper, for he is noble.

  LYDIA AND BARRETT made the return trip in less time, unburdened by backpacks. Lydia seemed distracted, barely talkative, and Barrett sensed a change in their relationship. He slowed his pace to stay even with her, stole glances at her face, and tried to imagine what he had done to disturb her.

  He’d been living in her house for a couple of months now, ever since his father parked him there and promised to return soon. A hunting trip? A job? A secret mission? Who knew where he and Lydia’s stepfather and another man had gone. The third man had left his two young kids as well and Barrett, after a few days, unwillingly appointed himself as man of the house, though Lydia’s mother tried her best to keep an eye on all of them in addition to working a night shift. For Barrett, working odd jobs, spying, and stealing from the Blues all fell into place and, most importantly, living in the old house put him near Lydia every single day.

  “Do you think Dalton’s going to make a difference?” he asked Lydia. He looked down, afraid his tone was too accusing. He was already apprehensive about how she felt, but something made him ask anyway.

  “Of course.” Lydia kept her eyes forward. She hadn’t looked at Barrett since leaving Dalton with Vinn and Carter. Barrett had watched Lydia and Dalton shake hands goodbye. He had to turn and walk away when he saw how she looked at Dalton. Anger had enveloped him and he didn’t like the feeling. The emotions that warred in his belly had him totally confused. He chewed at his lip.

  Lydia spoke with conviction, “I absolutely believe that Dalton Battista will, you know, change things. Make the Reds equal to the Blues. Maybe even do away with all the segregation stuff. Change the laws of the Ninety.”

  Barrett stole another glance.

  “What do we do in the meantime?” he asked.

  Lydia didn’t even hesitate. “We keep spreading the word.”

  They reached the outskirts of the slums, picked their way around heaps of garbage, and ambled down the center of what once served as a busy boulevard. There was no homecoming comfort in seeing the Exodia sign.

  Suddenly Barrett thrust his left arm out halting Lydia in line with his own abrupt stop. He stayed like that with his arm stiff, head cocked, eyes darting right and left. In a muted whisper he warned her of approaching danger.

  “Soldiers?” she guessed.

  “Sounds more like a parade.” He dropped his arm. “Something’s not right. If they were going to go house to house hunting for Dalton they would’ve started here and worked their way inward, right?” He took a step off the road and crossed over to a row of broken billboards where litter grew taller than weeds. It crossed his mind briefly how this used to be a great place to hunt for glass and plastic. “Look,” he sai
d.

  One of the few boards that still worked no longer glowed with the face and slogans of the Executive President; now it flickered messages that chilled their blood: Curfew enacted. Youth registration required for all Reds over twelve years of age. Water regulation in effect. Residential reversion to 2080 census.

  She didn’t mean to, but Lydia gripped Barrett’s arm. “We’ve only been gone a couple days. What’s happened?”

  Barrett gave the expected shrug.

  Lydia let go of his arm and asked, “What else can you hear? Shouldn’t there be people around here?”

  “Yeah, right. But I don’t hear anyone. It’s like they’ve taken everyone away.”

  “Not a parade … a death march.”

  As fast as Barrett ran Lydia still kept pace as they scrambled through streets and yards.

  They bee-lined through the slum following the tramping sounds that at first only Barrett could hear. They got ahead of the marchers and hid behind a pile of rusted machinery. From there they watched the Exodian guardsmen herd a sizable number of men and women toward the capitol. It came as a relief actually that there were only a few hundred people and not thousands being herded like sheep.

  “Do you recognize anybody from our streets?” Lydia asked.

  Barrett frowned then cursed leaving no doubt as to the answer. Lydia didn’t want to believe it. She zig-zagged back toward Bancroft Street thinking only of her mother and the two young kids in their charge. Barrett let her lead the way.

  The street was almost deserted; two young kids played a quiet game of tag in the road.

  “Where is everybody?” Lydia shouted.

  The older of the two, the one who had received the first stolen orange when Dalton had come to their street, stared at her, and took his time with the simple answer. “It’s Wednesday.”

  * * *

  Fifty-one families and nineteen single men and women were assigned to live in the sprawling building that had formerly been a super-school. The grounds around it had long ago been hand-tilled and re-purposed as co-operative gardens. Food was grown, shared, guarded.

  Classrooms had become homes, offices were made into tiny apartments, and the gymnasium made the perfect gathering place for social and political forums. Lydia and Barrett headed there as fast as they could. But they were too late; the weekly Wednesday meeting finished early. They stood under a broken basketball hoop and watched as Red after Red, men, women, and children, left the gym. Lydia didn’t see her mother, but she spotted two teens, friends who had been involved in spying, stealing, and sabotaging, and waved them closer.

  “What did we miss? What’s going on?” Lydia said to one.

  “Hey, you’re back. You missed a lot. Not that old Timothy Teague’s rantings aren’t something worth missing.”

  “Teague? He’s useless. We do more for the cause than he does.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re gonna love what he had to say about you and Bear.”

  Barrett moved closer. “What?”

  Their friend snorted, looked up at the statuesque Lydia and then down at Barrett. “You moved too fast. Technically, according to Teague, you’re grounded.”

  The lines on Lydia’s brow knitted closer together. “Grounded? Like no more missions? But we just got the Dalton Battista out of here … out of certain death.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, you were too fast. He didn’t need to go.”

  Barrett hissed, “But there was an order for his execution.”

  “Automatically rescinded,” said the other kid.

  Lydia rolled that bit of news around her head for a few seconds. An executive order could only be rescinded if the one charged died before capture. She couldn’t think of any other reason. She clutched at the first boy’s elbow. “Tell us.”

  “Bryer Battista is dead. No one is looking for Dalton because the one in authority now is the President of Defense.”

  The news shocked both Lydia and Barrett. They looked at each other, their faces changing from astonishment to elation to puzzlement.

  “But–” Lydia could not form the question. She shook her head as if to jar something out. “You mean–”

  “Nobody knows what would’ve happened. The new Executive President might’ve let him stay in the capitol with his mother or put him in the army. But he would’ve been here, and Teague said he would’ve been in a better position to inspire, lead, and fulfill the prophecies.”

  Now Barrett shook his head. “No, don’t believe it, Lydia. We did the right thing. There’s a reason we had to get Dalton out of here. Ronel will train him. Everything will work out.” He turned to the other teens. “Screw Teague. He can’t ground us.”

  “Maybe not, but he can put you in the same group of subversives that the President of Defense just ordered incarcerated. They marched off two hundred men, seventy-six women, and four kids our age–girls–to be re-educated at the old factory south of town. Re-educated. You know what that really means.”

  #

  Jamie’s father allowed him to visit his mother once a week. She lived in the valley district where life was several levels better than in the Red Slum. Populated solely with upper-class Blues, the former Mrs. Truslow lived a pampered yet fearful life. Jamie’s father would often show up unannounced and he’d demand a reenactment of her role as submissive, and abused, wife.

  Jamie, with his lopsided grin and the same bashful eyes as his mother, sometimes witnessed his father’s inexcusable behavior. Slowly the atrocious behavior seemed less awful.

  “Hey, mom,” Jamie said as he entered through the front door.

  “Jamie!” She jumped up from the sofa and looked beyond her son expecting the larger figures of a capitol guard and her ex-husband, the President of Defense. Seeing no one else she visibly softened, hugged her son, and pulled him into the dining room. She had set out for him a bowl of small strawberries she’d grown herself.

  “These are for you. I pick them every day hoping you’ll come by.”

  “Don’t lay a guilt trip on me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just don’t get to see you enough. I’m working nightshift now, so I sleep days, but don’t let that stop you from coming.” She watched him scarf down a handful of berries. “So … what’s new?”

  Jamie made a satisfied humming sound as he chewed. He stuffed several more in and spoke with his mouth full, “Drink?”

  His mother flew to the kitchen.

  Jamie swallowed and called after her, “I think I’ve found the right girl.” He took a couple steps toward the kitchen, visualizing the beautiful girl his father probably wouldn’t approve of.

  “It won’t be cold,” she said, handing him a glass of something warm and brown. “Refrigeration has been down for several days.”

  Jamie took a gulp. The bitter liquid burned away the sweet fruity taste of the berries. “This is awful,” he yelled. He smashed the glass on the floor and slapped the hope off his mother’s face.

  * * *

  “I’m so glad this is the last one.” Kassandra held the top edge of the car door frame with both hands, keeping the whole thing upright as Katie dug out a narrow trench. Together they lifted the make-do barrier and placed it as straight as they could in the trench.

  “Not deep enough.” Kassandra lifted it out by herself while Katie grabbed the shovel.

  Both girls were decorated with far too much mud. They’d worked on this project for hours. There never seemed to be a lack of rusted car parts to be re-purposed into things–things that would have been more simply made if the world hadn’t begun to destroy itself after the Suppression. But Kassandra and her sisters didn’t know any different. A fence was a fence, whatever it was made of.

  “There. Try it now.” Katie jammed the shovel into the mud and helped her older sister wrestle the awkward door into the hole. She retrieved the shovel and tapped globs of mud into the open spaces until the suction took hold. Like the other doors they had grappled with, this one stayed upright.

  “Do
you think he’ll like it? I bet he won’t.” Katie’s face fell to her customary frown.

  “If he can’t find any lumber to buy I think he’ll love it.”

  Their father had left after the earthquake to see what he could find. It was pretty obvious that they would need materials not just for a new and pathetically smaller windmill, but also for a fence. Deandra had come up with the idea of using car doors almost as soon as he left. Their mother thought it would be a good solution since already a few of the sheep had discovered their freedom. All of them set right to work on it. But one by one they found easier chores to do until only the oldest sisters worked on finishing the job. Now the other five girls had the flock back on the south slope while their mother had walked to town.

  “Yeah, he’ll love it. I just hope it holds up when it rains.” Katie looked up, checking for her own personal black cloud. She had a natural lean toward the pessimistic.

  Kassandra gasped. “I hadn’t thought of that. Wait. What about that stuff, that hardening stuff, that Mr. Andrews sells? We could use that.”

  “I suppose. What’ll we use for trade?”

  “Good question. Maybe a certain younger sister?”

  Kassandra didn’t even smile at Katie’s joke; she wasn’t entirely sure it was a joke. She could see the flock coming down the hill in the distance. The cute little lambs tried to keep up with their mothers. Her sisters spread around the sides. She watched them with pride.

  “Here they come. Prepare for a muddy mess,” Katie said.

  The pond was reduced to half its size. The herd would have to muck through yards of mud to get a drink. It would be difficult to get them all watered, rounded back up and corralled into the enclosure. How much longer they’d be able to drink here was anybody’s guess.

  It was a long walk to the monument, but there was a well and pump there with an old pool where, if they had to, they could water the flock. It was the only idea Kassandra had. She couldn’t let her sheep die of thirst. But there were certain dangers in traveling so far. Alone. Just girls. If only her father wasn’t a priest. They were probably the only family without weapons.