Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  I spot a single guard leaning back against a tree, arms crossed, head lolling. A horse knickers and the guard pops his head up straight, checks his prisoners, takes a step in my direction. I wave him back as if I’m his superior. Perhaps I would’ve been if things had turned out differently. He returns to his tree and I intend to walk about as if I know what I’m doing.

  I step over piles of supposed treasure and around sleeping bodies. I catch a glint of anger or fear, I can’t tell which, off the open eyes of a woman who quickly closes them against the specter of me. Most of the women are sleeping in pairs, an arm slung over a child or young daughter. I see a larger group a little way farther – my family I hope. I take a cautious step in that direction.

  There are more sounds near the string of horses. I glance back to see the guard whispering to another soldier before exchanging places with him. This new watchman takes up his post at the tree and waves me over. There are at least fifteen dark yards between us and maybe only five yards to the eight sleeping Lunas.

  There’s nothing I can do but obey.

  And remember my combat training. A quick series of moves will disarm and silence this soldier. I can quietly put him to sleep. Or do worse. I had to practice a technique of hand over mouth, arm around neck, twisting and raking the jugular vein with a battle knife. But we also rehearsed with shards of glass, broken plates, whatever we could find. We were fitted with sand-filled collars that spewed the grains like rivers of blood.

  I quicken my pace. I’m strong from working on the ranch. I’ll have to surprise him. He cocks his head, moves his hand to his whip, squints in the low light. I have maybe three seconds to act.

  * * *

  Kassandra lifted her head and stared toward the line of old trees that were evenly spaced across the expanse. There were guards posted at some of them. She saw a new soldier come up and replace the one who seemed to watch her a little too closely. Another guard was checking the sleeping women, striding over and around the bodies. No, it wasn’t a soldier. She blinked and strained her eyes and watched the familiar figure advance. She blinked again and prayed Gresham wouldn’t pick this moment to cry out; he was sound asleep, cradled in the crook of her arm. Despite her desire to see her husband act bravely, she wished he would duck down low, creep to her side, and gently rescue her. She noticed the guard wave Dalton over. She held her breath. Dalton turned like an obedient pup and took his long strides toward the soldier. The guard, tall and thin and ghostlike in the dark, took a wide-legged stance in front of the tree and fixed his attention on Dalton.

  His mistake. A concealed man lunged from behind the tree and clubbed the guard, grabbed a startled Dalton, and pulled him behind the line of horses and out of Kassandra’s sight.

  Flor’s soft voice whispered near her ear, “Was that Dalton? What’s happening? Are they going to kill him?”

  Kassandra shushed her sister. “Go back to sleep. Everything will be fine.” She worked her way upright, keeping Gresham nestled to her side. When she stood all the way up she grabbed Dalton’s old backpack with her free hand. It had what she needed: diapers, of course, but also money for bribes, and that old nano-gun her father had banned from their home when Dalton came. She had intended to sell it at the TM to buy baby clothes. She had no idea how to use it, but if she could get it to Dalton maybe they could make their escape.

  She didn’t even look back at her sisters and mother as she sneaked off toward the line of horses.

  “Not without my son.” She heard Dalton’s soft voice stuttering out an answer to someone. A current of jealousy ripped through her heart. She peeked around the first horse and saw the round-faced guard with his hands on both of Dalton’s shoulders, not like he was holding him forcefully, but more like a father trying to talk some sense into a child.

  The guard whispered back, “I’ll make sure your family escapes once we get to Exodia. There are places in the Red slum they can hide, then blend in.” He took his hands off Dalton and pulled something out of his pocket and held it out for Dalton. “Take this. It’s a map to Ronel’s first outpost. You get there and they’ll take you the rest of the way.”

  Dalton was still shaking his head, but said nothing.

  “Listen, there are just too many in your family. You’ll be missed right away and they’ll send troops out after you, but if only one is gone no one will notice in the morning.”

  Kassandra stepped out and startled both men. Dalton grabbed her to his side before the guard had a chance to unholster his gun.

  “My wife,” he said, “and son.” He took the backpack and slung it over his shoulder, tucked the map into his belt sack, and raised his left hand to his ear with his elbow pointing out. The soldier matched the gesture.

  A cry arose, but not from the baby. Flor’s voice screamed loud and frantic, calling out her sister’s name. Shouts from other guards followed, whips cracked, and women woke to join the screams.

  “This way,” the round-faced guard pointed left and guided them away from the ruckus and down a spongy path. Their feet made sucking sounds until they reached the woods.

  The advantage of the dark night was also its drawback. They stumbled down the deer trail, tripping on roots and pushing branches away. Gresham awoke and began to bawl like a kitten. Kassandra pressed him into the soft flesh of her breast, muffling him, nearly smothering him.

  They came out of the woods onto a narrow road where a rusty brown ’49 Sony Solar Beast two-seater sat ready to go.

  “Can you drive?” the soldier asked Dalton. “You have an hour’s worth of power, so get as far from here as you can, park and wait for dawn.”

  Dalton opened the passenger door for Kassandra then nodded at the soldier. His lips started and stopped and finally he just stuck his elbow out again and said nothing.

  “You’re our hope, Dalton Battista. You must get to Ronel.”

  The soldier pressed his elbow against Dalton’s, handed him a starter button, turned and ran back.

  Chapter 9 Listen to the Voice

  From the fourth page of the Ledger:

  He witnessed the misery of his people, the slavery and oppression, but still he ran away. Then he saw the burning building.

  I PRESS THE starter button into the matching indentation on the dashboard. There is a quiet hum and the headlights pop on and the safety restraints move into place. Kassandra is surprised; she has never ridden in a car before.

  “Do you know how to work it?” she says.

  “Of course,” I answer. It can’t be that hard. I press my foot on the floor control and we lurch forward. The car automatically adjusts and straightens out. I hold onto the steering wheel and quickly get a feel for it and we’re off. We cover the first half mile much faster than we should.

  Gresham fusses again and Kassandra works herself and him free of the restraints and lifts her shirt. The car auto-corrects when I accidentally veer to the right too much. I increase the pressure on the speed control and we hit a bump that makes Kassandra cry out.

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. So, what did that soldier say to you? Are we going to get help? Will the map take us home? Who can help us?”

  She sounds like her inquisitive younger sister. I think of Flor and wonder if her screams were just the right diversion for us. I think of Sana who would have taken Kassandra’s last question and turned it into a prophecy. I see the words who can help us and they change in my mind to own place hush.

  “He said the map would take us to Ronel’s first outpost, but I think … I think we should go to our own place.” I glance over to see my son squirming against Kassandra, trying to latch onto her, and emitting hungry mewling sounds. “Hush,” I add.

  “But my sisters … my parents. What about them?”

  “You heard what he said. He’ll help them escape, too.”

  “Why should he? He’s one of them. Those awful Blues.”

  “No he’s not. Many of the soldiers are Reds. They’re forced into s
ervice. First to fight, first to die.” I adjust the speed and keep my eyes on the road as it widens and we cross over a slight rise. “He’s part of the rebellion, the secret resistance.” I don’t tell her how I used to train alongside older Reds, thinking I was better because I was always matched against boys two or three years older. I hadn’t noticed there were no Reds my age.

  “Are we really going home?” she says. There’s relief in her voice, but also fear. And guilt. The tiny car’s interior is choked with it.

  I feel a tug at my conscience. I mumble a quick yes and neither of us speaks for a while. I remember how I felt leaving Exodia with Lydia and Barrett, the ledger papers in my belt sack, a goal before me. A purpose for my life. But I’m reluctant to be that hero and even though I started to read the ledger papers the first night I stayed with Kassandra I can’t make myself read them all.

  I fumble one-handed with the sack, trying to open it, glancing between it and the road. The ledger papers are hidden at home, the only paper in this sack is the map the soldier gave me. I let go of the wheel for an instant to use both hands.

  “Here,” I say to Kassandra. “Try to read the map. See if you can figure out the way home.”

  I press the dome light and it sends a weak beam toward her lap, much less effective than the ones in the vehicles my grandfather used. But it’s enough so she can see.

  I’m patient for maybe four minutes. It’s stifling hot in the car and we haven’t bathed in days.

  We come to a crossroads and it’s dark in all directions. I stop the car and figure out a way to keep it from inching forward.

  “Let me see.” I peer over at the map and I see why she’s been so quiet. The map is crudely drawn with lines and arrows and scribbled names like rusted bus and roofless house and abandoned town. Measurements are noted with hour by horse, hour by foot, or hour by car. I study it for a few minutes until I understand. Ronel’s new outpost is only a short walk north of the abandoned town, which, I’m pretty certain, is our own secret town.

  I point it out for Kassandra. “Home,” I say.

  We’ll go there first, care for the sheep, make a plan, look for the outpost later. Or not at all.

  I set the map between us and get the Beast moving again. I wonder about the commotion we left behind. I hope that Flor is not being punished, that she knows to say nothing about a missing sister and nephew. I’m surprised by how well Kassandra is coping. Her attention is riveted on our son and she seems to have accepted our circumstances. A thought jolts through my mind: she is denying her family as I have denied mine. If I judge her for it I judge myself.

  * * *

  Kassandra keeps her eyes down as I maneuver the car onto a dirt road and up a hill. The baby nursed on and off for nearly an hour. For sixteen days straight, since the baby was born, we’ve both been sleep-deprived, but she hasn’t complained. I’m sure she’s thirsty now, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I focus on finding a clear spot where we can park. I’ll need to let the solar car power up when the sun rises in the morning.

  “This should work,” I say as we reach the top of the hill. I pop the starter button out and the engine dies. I’m not sure if that’s the best way to kill the engine, but no one ever taught me this skill. The headlights fade and we sit in silence letting our eyes adjust.

  “We can get out and stretch if you want.”

  Kassandra shakes her head. “I’d rather sleep a while if I can.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to take a look around. Make sure it’s safe here.”

  I open my door and extend my cramped legs. I’m as tired as Kassandra, but I won’t sleep until I inspect this area. And look for water. I circle the car once and walk a little farther away in ever widening loops.

  It won’t be long before dawn comes. The early birds are already starting their choruses. I focus on a particular sound and walk in that direction.

  * * *

  I hear a voice crying. I’m sure it’s neither Gresham nor Kassandra. It’s a man’s voice. I suddenly remember my nanny and the time we went to that house with the kids and the man. The man who cried.

  I take a cautious step in the direction of the sound. The ground gives way and I tumble down the hill, catch my foot on something and slam into a tree. I’m mad at myself and glad that no one can see me. At least I’m still standing. I turn to start back up the hill, but I slip on wet leaves and down I go. I roll six, seven, maybe ten feet until the edge of something stops me. It’s cold and hard and damp. I pat the mossy side of it and finger its top. Only a couple of feet tall. A concrete foundation.

  I follow the edge of it around to an opening and in this pre-dawn darkness I discover its purpose: a garage, its walls and roof neatly dismantled after the Suppression and used elsewhere, no doubt, or burned as fuel. I see no sign of a house though. I continue down the hill further until I can’t see the solar car anymore even though the light is steadily increasing.

  Over here.

  I swear I hear a voice. I stop and listen. There’s no man crying. Nothing. Not even birds anymore.

  Over here.

  I whip around and stare in every direction. There’s a dim glow to my left, like a candle behind a curtain. I face it and count my steps as I work my way closer.

  The glow brightens. I pick my way more easily because now I’ve found a path. And I see a house. A window. A billowing curtain. Flames catch the material, flicker, burst brighter around the window. The roof catches fire.

  I stand captivated by this strange sight. Strange because the flames rise several feet up and out, enveloping the house, yet the sides and roof don’t disintegrate. No crumbling. No sparking. No crackling hiss or sizzle.

  No smoke.

  Do not come any closer.

  I hear the voice as clearly as if the speaker is at my side.

  I have sent for you. Do you know who I am?

  It is some kind of trick, this burning house that is not consumed, with a voice that speaks, but I can’t figure it out. Some peculiar magic from the first half of the century perhaps. Unremarkable then. Maybe even common.

  Dalton.

  I twist all around. I can’t believe my ears.

  Dalton. I am David Ronel.

  “Where are you?” I barely mouth the words.

  Dalton, I need you to help me. Your people are suffering. You will rescue them and lead them out of Exodia and to a safer place that I have prepared.

  I’m speechless, even in my head.

  I’m afraid.

  I start to stutter, swallow hard, and try again, “I’m not really that important. I probably can’t do much.” My voice is maybe one decibel higher than a whisper.

  I will help you.

  The house is still burning and I see a metal pillar off to the side. Maybe it’s a beam with a speaker on top. The voice might be coming from that direction though when I move my head side to side I can’t tell where it’s coming from.

  This is just too weird. I should get out of here. I take a step backwards.

  I am the one who has left the signs.

  The signs? The prophecies? My name written everywhere?

  I plant my feet again; curiosity outweighs the fear I have.

  I find my normal speaking voice. “How do I know you’re really David Ronel? Show yourself.” My nanny told me enough stories, enough descriptions, that I’m sure I’d recognize the man though he must be ancient by now.

  There is silence. The pounding in my chest isn’t subsiding.

  Tell your people I will wait for them. You must free them from Exodia.

  My people? The Lunas? All the Reds?

  Go to the leaders of the Reds, to Timothy Teague and Brace Hamlin and Fred Korzon. Tell them I have the land ready for them. They will listen to you.

  I rub my elbow. I can think of a thousand reasons not to go back and two of them are waiting for me in the solar car.

  Take the leaders with you to see the Executive President. Demand that he let all the people c
ome north on a three day peace march.

  I catch myself before I laugh out loud. I take two steps backwards and turn toward the hill. It’s getting lighter and the golden sunrise is outlining the tree tops.

  Dalton. The new Executive President will not let you all go unless he is compelled. I will give you what you need to convince him. I will send to you Lydia and Barrett and two others. They will have the equipment ready.

  I turn back at the mention of Lydia’s name. I haven’t let myself think of her in months. I stare at the house’s roof with the flickering tongues of flames lancing out from inside. I can’t risk seeing her again.

  “Can’t you send someone else?”

  Put your hand in the bush.

  There’s a thorny shrub to my left. I want to disobey, but I plunge my hand into the center, feel the sharp pain of three or four thorns scraping up my arm. And then the round handle of a jug. I pull it out. Water. How did he know that’s what I’m here looking for?

  Words of thanks cross my mind but I don’t say them aloud. There must be someone else who can do this task. Someone older. Why does it have to be me?

  “No one will listen to me.” I say. “He’ll just throw me in prison or execute me.”

  He won’t harm you. I have led him to the original ledgers. He knows that to kill you means his own death.

  “I’m not a good speaker.”

  I will help you speak. I will teach you what to say.

  If he asked me to fight I could fight. I’m trained to fight. Or spy, maybe. I might be decent at spying. But the thought of speaking to the Red leaders, this Teague and Hamlin and Korzon, seems impossible. And then to have to talk to Executive President Truslow … for sure I’d be tongue-tied. I know the man; he’s Jamie’s father and I’ve never said two words to him. I was too afraid to, even when I lived in the same building. He is seriously evil.

  I cradle the jug of water and speak with my head down. “Please, Mr. Ronel, please send someone else.”

  There is silence again. The burning diminishes. Like gas jets being turned down. The heat that I hadn’t noticed before lessens on my face and yet I sense an even hotter anger in the air.