She felt pretty safe most of the time, but there was no lack of stories about the Blues. A single Blue man, trained as they were in warfare, could be a huge threat to a young girl. What if they went to the monument and ran into one of them? Or two?
What if they were kidnappers? Or rapists?
Or murderers?
Chapter 7 Lions and Lambs
From the third page of the Ledger:
He was saved from the snare and the pestilence. He walked the land of the wild beast and trampled snakes along the way.
BEING TALLER THAN those around me, being trained in N.A. combat, being guarded by soldiers, being the grandson of the Executive President, all that, has blinded me to how absolutely useless, naive, and stupid I am. I’ve kept the sun to my left side as much as possible for the last four or five hours, but I wonder if I’m going in circles.
I left the woodsy paths a while back and started following an old interstate highway, one of the magnetized ones with a buried network of high tech mags that kept the cars of the fifties and sixties floating safely a couple of feet above the ground until their drivers turned onto the surface streets and used their wheels again. Those same cars now repurpose themselves as tiny homes in the slum or roll down the streets if someone has kept them running, refitted them for bio-fuel, or paid the black market prices for gas or solar panels. I have only seen four this afternoon, all going south, and none of them floated, but each one sped up to bump crazily over the grassy way when they saw me, as if I could lunge across the median and yank their doors open. I laugh to myself and think that I’ll do just that if one comes up my lane.
I’m pretty tired. Hungry, too. An hour ago I stopped and drank the stew broth and now I’m trying one of the cakey bars that Lydia packed for me. I wonder how she and Barrett knew to plan for my escape.
I finish the bar and keep on walking.
Before the Suppression there were over seven hundred million people on our continent. Everywhere I’ve been with my mother and grandfather I’ve seen the evidence. So many buildings, factories, and stores. Empty. Ruined. Whole cities abandoned. My tutor says the government claims the population has fallen to a tenth of what it was, though he believes they can’t really know that.
A growing rumble makes me quicken my pace. I cut across the roadside and up an exit toward a pair of buildings. The sky darkens and the thunder chases me toward an unhinged door. I check for sounds before I enter, see puddles on the floor, and decide to check the other building. It’s a café–was a cafe. I kick the door open, knife ready, and shout, “Coming in!”
The place is quiet. The tables and chairs are neatly stacked, but covered with dirt and grime. There are mouse droppings everywhere. The storm begins for real with a couple of sharp cracks. The rain starts, but the roof of the cafe appears better than the other building’s.
The wind picks up and I close the door. I explore my little sanctuary and find a broom, some towels, and a small supply of irradiated chicken stashed in a utensils drawer. I read the labels and determine that they are within the forty year expiration date. I wonder if anyone ever tested that theory. I pack the four packages into my bags.
I take the broom and towels and clean a space near the window, put a chair there, and watch the storm pass. When it doesn’t let up after a while I clean off four more chairs and line them up. It’s not entirely uncomfortable to lie across them. The last towel, rolled up, makes an adequate pillow.
I dream of Lydia. I hear jarring cracks as a capitol guard whips Barrett over and over. And then he whips Lydia and Jamie and finally, he whips me.
Another dream follows with thunderous pounding. I hear my grandfather’s fist beating on my mother’s bedroom door. She lets him in and there is nothing I can do because in my dream, and in my memory, I’m only five.
I awake and it’s perfectly still outside. I walk around looking out each window in turn. I hear something that stirs every cautious bone in my body.
Lions. I see them in the heavy brush and knee-high grasses that grow beside the road. A whole pride. At least seven, maybe more if they are spread out hunting. City zoos no longer exist; these animals have had a few generations to roam wild. I wonder if they have any gemfry effects. Of course they must. Genetic mutations from radiation exposure would have similar consequences in the animal world. A certain wild dog comes to mind.
I wait a lingering hour and pray the rain hides my scent.
When the storm is at last replaced with the slanted rays of late afternoon sunshine I feel less anxious. The cafe’s interior has brightened, too, and I give it a final search before venturing out. There’s a map on the back of the door. I’m five miles from the pipeline that Carter spoke of, the place where I can catch a ride on a truck. Maybe.
I see something else on the map. A strange symbol. I check the map’s legend and feel a twinge of excitement. If I angle off to the east I’m also five miles from Usala’s Rock. I tear the map down, but it crumbles in my hands like dry cake. No matter. I will find Usala’s Rock.
I step outside and scan the grasses, the road, and even the trees for signs of a tawny yellow coat or shaggy mane. If Barrett were here he’d sniff the air. I take in as much air through my nose as I can, but I have no idea what a lion smells like and all I sense is the clean scent of rain-dampened earth. I don’t believe I’d have a chance in a million against a pride of lions, but somehow I’m not afraid. The pull of my own prophetic anagram is greater than my fear of wild animals. I slog through the mud and trek up the old roads toward Usala’s Rock.
* * *
It is nearly dark when I see the monument. I hear voices as well. There’s a water pump, a hand powered one, and several people are filling containers. I can’t see their tattoos. When they finish and leave I take a turn at the fresh water, fill my stomach and my container. I move beyond the pump and stare at Usala’s Rock. It’s not very impressive. The rock itself is hardly more than a boulder, easily climbed, but the monument behind it rises maybe twenty feet, slick and black and impossible to climb. I set my bags down at the base of the rock and do what I must: Dalton Battista, sit on Usala’s Rock.
I can see the remains of decades of neglect–rundown fences, piles of garbage, and swaths of wild undergrowth. The monument sits disregarded, forgotten, perhaps contaminated, but the path to the well looks frequently used and recently trampled.
I don’t know if I expect some bolt of lightning or a prophetic vision, but I hear the most beautiful voice singing that same song I’ve heard the last few days. I stay frozen and watch as a blond girl leads a couple dozen sheep to the well, singing her song, smiling, coaxing the flock along with a primitive shepherd’s staff. She pumps out water by the gallon, letting it flow down the stones until it puddles in a concrete well that the sheep crowd around.
I watch. I listen. I expect something momentous to happen. Maybe God will speak from Heaven and forgive me of my murder … murders.
There’s harmony in the song now. One by one, six more girls come until there are seven blonds guarding maybe a hundred sheep. I sit and watch. The song ends and the girls, sisters most likely, become anxious and worried. They take turns at the pump, trying hard to make the water flow faster, glancing around in troubled anticipation of something. They ignore me, but stay on guard.
I see the gang before they do.
* * *
One of the ways my grandfather has succeeded in staying in power is to make unlawful the gathering of more than six men in any one place. Six men constitute a gang that can work on construction, play a little three on three, line up for water or food, but seven men together, or ten or twenty, is a resistance that needs to be crushed. I’ve seen it happen through my mother’s fingers.
Four years ago, the last time I had been allowed on an Executive Policy Tour, we had driven all day in a caravan of military troops to reach the southern border of the Chicago ruins. Our soldiers acted out the Executive President’s order time after time while my mother held her hand over my ey
es.
I would have presumed that the four young men now approaching the well were less harmful than the men I saw executed when I was twelve, but the nervous behavior of the sisters can only mean these brutes are dangerous.
I slip off the rock and dig through my bags. I have the knife, the Stun-n-Run gun, a package of what I assume is Vinn’s homemade explosives, and a Nano-gun. The Nano-gun is no doubt stolen and I imagine Barrett sneaking in some place where they think he’s just a pesky fruit thief and running out with oranges and guns. This gun holds five thousand rounds of nano-bullets, if it’s fully loaded. I thumb open the load-lock and see it’s at 22%. That’s still impressive. I could take out this gang and all the sheep five times over.
I pocket the Nano-gun, abandon my bags, and move closer to the well.
I’m overwhelmed by the smell of the sheep as several begin to encircle me. Their coats are shaggy and their droopy-eared faces and pathetic bleating add to the repulsive impression.
“Hi,” I say to the girls who are working together to pump the water. One has her hair in long braids and they whip around her neck as she jumps to see who speaks. The other, the smallest of the seven, lets go of the pump handle. They both step aside and the faucet instantly slows to a trickle. The sheep fuss around my knees. I try to step out of the way and I must look terrified or ridiculous because the girls begin to laugh.
“Don’t be afraid. They’re just sheep,” the smaller girl says. “Look, Araceli, he’s scared of lambs.”
The oldest sister, the one that sang first, runs up, hardly gives me a glance, and leans into her sisters.
“Hurry,” she says. “They’re coming.” The fear and anxiety are obvious.
“But all the sheep haven’t had a chance to drink yet. Flor and I weren’t finished pumping,” Araceli, the girl with braids, says.
“There are seven of us,” her little sister snaps. “We were here first. We can fight them off.”
I can’t help letting out an easy laugh. The little one, Flor, is feisty. And innocent. Her oldest sister acknowledges my presence with a harsh look.
“Are you one of them?” she takes a couple of steps back grabbing her sisters’ arms.
I shake my head no and follow her eyes to the advancing threat. All four boys are probably eighteen or nineteen, tall like me. Reds, no doubt. They’re carrying walking sticks, but helping them walk is not their intended purpose. They reach the outer edge of the flock and begin to hit at the sheep, knocking their flanks as if they were pebbles to be swept aside.
“Stop that!” Flor says. She sounds fierce in her protection of the sheep, but her older sister is equally passionate in protecting her sibling. She pushes her into the other girl’s arms.
“Take her and run,” she orders.
Araceli grabs Flor’s hand, but asks, “What about the sheep, Kassandra? What are—”
“Go!” Kassandra yells. “And take Sana, too. Katie and the twins will help me deal with this.”
“I can help,” I say. I think of several smart ways to explain who I am and the authority I have at my disposal. But I’m a fugitive. The only authority I have I draw slowly out of my pocket. The Nano-gun doesn’t impress her. It’s the size of a large potato if a potato had a flip down handle-grip. If she’s never seen one before she has no idea of its power. Fear, excitement, guilt and remorse all flood my veins.
She, this Kassandra, stares at me, looks me up and down, and whistles. It’s a sharp, manly sound that pierces the air and doubles the tension.
“Get these stupid sheep outta here!” The biggest of the four thugs yells this command and follows it with a stream of obscenities. The other three chime in with threats of their own as they push through the flock and come up to the pump.
Kassandra’s hands have found her hips and her whistle has brought three sisters to her side. Katie, I assume, and the twins.
“What did I say, bitches? Get these stinkin’ animals outta here.” He waves his stick at all the girls. Araceli and Flor are still nearby, afraid to run.
It crosses my mind that today’s earlier rainstorm is up for a repeat performance since the sky seems to darken. But instead of ominous weather it is only the natural darkening as the sun gets ready to set. Four large guys loom before us with faces that pucker into menacing expressions.
“What are you lookin’ at?” the second one barks.
I carefully pull the slide bar back on the Nano-gun as I point it at the gang. I think of a thousand wise cracks to put them in their place, but my mouth is dry. I tell myself to shoot low. I am not a killer, not a cold-blooded killer, anyway.
“It’s a Nano-gun,” one of them says, his voice as quiet and intense as an executive presidential order. “Let’s leave.”
Definitely that is good advice. I want to encourage them to turn, but still my mouth stays clamped shut. It’s that little flower of a girl who speaks for me. She yells, “Yeah, go on, before our brother shoots you.”
This false revelation raises eyes as well as feet and the four bullies move in sync, back, down the hill, turning, running.
The protests of the thirsty sheep reach my ears again as the pounding in my chest and head recedes.
“Would you really have shot them?” Flor asks.
All the girls except Kassandra come up to me. The questions flow–who am I, where do I live, why did I help them, did the doctor send me, how did I get that scar on my neck–and I’m overwhelmed by them. I consider each girl. Katie is just a bit shorter than Kassandra, with the same long, blond hair, and her brow set in a similar stubborn scowl. She is dressed in layers of patched clothing that make her look fat. The twins would be identical if one had the smoothness of skin that her sister has instead of clusters of pock marks. It’s rather strange how my mind works. I’m tired, but I know that something is still wrong. I counted seven girls when I sat on the rock. Five surround me now. Kassandra is at the pump. It frightens them quite a lot when I don’t answer their questions, but instead ask, “Where is Sana?”
* * *
Because to them I am a hero and something of a novelty, the sisters, Sana included now, insist on taking me to their home in the valley a mile’s walk to the east. After I asked where Sana was, the oldest girls panicked and began to call out “Sana” or “Susana”, but Flor had simply pointed toward Usala’s Rock, where my bags lay opened. Sana was quietly repacking them, munching on something she had helped herself to, and pretty much ignoring the shouts.
She walks beside me now carrying my food bag. Her face shines with the same beauty as her sisters, but her hair is a darker blond, very short. She walks with a limp and says next to nothing except a few strange and cryptic things. She rolls her eyes and says, “Dalton Battista. Bandits total at—” and holds up four fingers. Her sisters laugh.
I’m accustomed now to the smell of the sheep and I quickly learn to watch my step. We walk toward our shadows which are growing longer by the minute as the sun gets close to setting behind us.
We settle most of the questions they have about me and I learn one particularly astonishing fact about them. None of the girls has a tattoo. They confess to using blue or red dye as needed when troops pass through, but consider themselves old-fashioned Americans, nothing more and nothing less.
We reach their farm and I see why they had to take the sheep so far for water. A two acre pond looks more like a mud bath for pigs than a drinking hole for several dozen sheep. There is an old windmill from the early part of the century, a three pronged giant that used to provide the farm with power for water and electricity, now collapsed and sprawled across an entire acre. The great metal blades fan out upon the muddy pond bottom; caked globs of splashed mud speckle the blades as the last rays of the day find some surface to glint from.
“Dalton Battista,” Sana says again and points at some sheep nearing the base of the windmill, “baa, tilt to stand.” She gives an excited one-foot hop as if she is telling us the most amazing thing. Her sisters smile, laugh, praise her, and I’m
caught up in the laughter though I’m missing some inside joke. Or maybe Sana, being one of the youngest in a large family, employs different ways to garner attention.
Kassandra lifts her staff to block some lambs that are reluctant to enter the enclosure. Her sisters form a barrier, stoop low with hands clasped, and herd the stragglers into a mostly wooden pen. One side is built of salvaged car doors stuck in the mud, an impromptu blockade I suspect. The twins close the gates. I expect to see them congratulate themselves on a job well done, but there is no elbow bumping or expressions of satisfaction.
They herd me toward the porch of the most unusual house I’ve ever seen. It’s a patchwork quilt of a building, fairly large, built with logs, metal, stone, blocks, bricks, plastic panels, and materials I can’t identify.
“Papa is going to be pleased that you helped us,” Flor says.
“He’s not going to be pleased that you lied,” Katie glares at her little sister, moves ahead and reaches for the doorknob. It’s an ordinary knob, the kind that’s linked to a foot-pedal near the bottom, like the ones we have at the capitol. Such ordinariness makes me expect the usual, but the usual is not what happens. The door doesn’t open out or in, but slides up and gets stuck half-way. Katie ducks under.
I’m expected to follow and I do with Flor closely on my heels; she doesn’t need to duck. For me it’s especially hard to stoop low enough and my backpack scrapes the bottom of the door and causes me to stumble forward. I stop inside a room lit with lamps and candles.
“Hands!” someone hollers from another room. “Wash your hands!” The voice and the command remind me of my nanny. I find myself hoping that she’ll appear here and now, nanny to seven girls.
All the sisters are inside now and the door is pulled down. We enter directly into a dining room with a long wooden table set for ten. Sana puts my food bag down in a corner of the room and I place my other pack next to it. There is a side table with a large bowl and a pitcher of water. Kassandra holds her hands over the bowl while Katie pours a small amount of water over them. Kassandra dries her hands on a towel and takes the pitcher from Katie.
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