Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  “I’ve got news,” Barrett said. He nodded to the other women, but spoke to Lydia. “Truslow’s taking Harmon and Dalton to the river tomorrow.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We’re not sure. A demonstration of some sort. He’s ordered all people in leadership positions to be there. At first light.”

  Lydia’s thoughts raced to an awful conclusion: an execution. She refused to consider it. “Is that all?”

  “Well,” Barrett frowned, settled a cautious gaze on one of the sisters, “I did hear something else. Truslow sent for those loony fortune tellers that used to work for Battista’s government.”

  “Fortune tellers?” Katie asked. “You mean like witches?”

  Barrett shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they’ve been called that, too.”

  Katie turned to Kassandra. “Remember that first night with Dalton? At dinner?” A nod and she resumed, “Sana gave a bunch of prophecies. One of them really bothered me and I thought about it for a long time. It was witch let doom, amen.”

  * * *

  The Mourners were a secret group of Reds who held the stubborn conviction that the single child who survived the Culling Mandate nearly two decades ago needed to sacrifice his own life as restitution for their horrific loss. Jenny Sroka had belonged to the group since its early days, and though she had subscribed to their vengeful beliefs at first she no longer saw the point of merciless actions. Still, if it hadn’t been for that one prophecy about that one particular child, Bryer Battista would never have instituted the order. And to think that Battista didn’t die at the hand of a Red after all, but from a heart attack.

  She wondered if, since the prophecy did not come to fruition as expected, maybe it was misinterpreted. Maybe Dalton was destined to kill another, someone who was not yet in power. It was difficult to decipher all the ramifications of such a supposition. She met with the other Mourners and voiced her concerns as much to convince herself as to save Dalton from the mortal end they proposed. And also because she knew her daughter loved him.

  But she failed to sway the Mourners. After they voted to continue with their preparations, they made her leave the meeting.

  * * *

  If brothers bond better under harsh conditions then Harmon and I are closer than most. The cell is damp and dark. They bring us one meal a day and barely enough water to keep hydrated. For warmth we sleep close together on the tile floor with our feet near the drain. Late last night four guards came and took us to a shower, made us shave our beards and heads, and gave us fresh, clean clothes. Then it was back to the tile floor for a fitful night of restless sleep. I dreamed of someone I shouldn’t think about.

  “Hey, you,” a guard shouts. “Get up. Follow us.”

  We follow between the guardsmen. We’re not tied up or chained and Harmon whispers something to me about running, but I shake him off. We’re too weak.

  They march us out of the building and into the early morning daybreak. We follow a caravan of vehicles that moves no faster than our sluggish feet. I hear the faraway voices of excited people. Close by there’s a hushed gathering of solemn Reds escorting us through the streets.

  We reach Exodia’s crystal clear river. It sparkles black and silver from the headlights. We stop and wait. The air is void of the putrid smells of the slum; the scent of flowers neither lifts my spirit or gives me hope. The sun rises behind us pushing our shadows to the river’s edge. The shadows are a more truthful sign. I’m doomed if I must swim. I wonder if Harmon has learned the skill.

  A horn sounds and soldiers push us to the sandy bank. Executive President Truslow exits his vehicle with a cadre of important looking men. Their hushed whispers add a troubling alarm to this apprehension. A military man hands him a staff–the weapon they took from us. Truslow uses it like a cane and walks straight up to us. He jams the end into the soft earth and for an instant I expect it to explode or at least to burrow away, but that doesn’t happen.

  I never speak first, but the words are on the tip of my tongue and I can’t seem to stop them. “David Ronel has sent us to say to you: Let the Reds go. Let us go meet him three days journey to the north. If you don’t let us go I’ll take that rod you’ve stuck in the mud and I’ll change the fresh water of this river into a polluted cesspool and all of Exodia, all Blues, will suffer.”

  Truslow’s laughter echoes loud and dark over our heads and is not at all genuine. He snorts out two of my words, polluted cesspool, amid his howls of humorless mirth. His visage changes in an instant. Pure anger and evil replace the fake amusement. He pushes the rod until it tilts and strikes me on the shoulder, daring me. Harmon puts his hand up to steady it.

  “I will not let the Reds go anywhere.” Truslow’s voice booms loudly, carried by the water. He is close enough to spit on, in fact he seems to be goading us to make a hostile move and yet his guards keep their weapons lax.

  I brush Harmon’s arm away and pull up the rod. I have limited knowledge of its workings, but Harmon has told me enough of its secret design. I hold the rod motionless and try to detect Truslow’s motives. If only I could touch his skin I could determine what he expects to accomplish by this show. I rearrange the letters of his last statement, hoping for a clue, but there is none.

  “Well?” he says, crossing his arms and glancing at the crowds. I look at them, too. I read their hope, their anxiety, their fear. Their faces tell me exactly what I need to do. No doubt Truslow has had his experts examine the rod, disarm it, or maybe it’s not even the same rod.

  Harmon whispers two words, “Have faith,” and I strike the end of the rod on the water and there’s an electrical spark and volts of energy that arc and spit.

  I see Sana’s sweet face for half a second. Polluted cesspool. People scold louts.

  The crowd erupts in fury and rebuke.

  They do in fact scold Truslow and his soldiers. And as the sun’s red and orange rays brighten the morning and gleam upon the water the people change their cries to ones of awe and triumph and then fear because the river is turning dark red. Dead fish float to the surface.

  Truslow directs his army to point their guns at the crowd and silence follows. He waves toward the second vehicle and four people emerge. Their clothes look more like costumes, old and ragged, but of a uniform style, robe-like. They walk forward with long strides, waving their arms with exaggerated flourishes, and producing objects from their sleeves and pockets. Whispers spread through the crowd. The Krona: seducers, magicians, witches, conjurers.

  “Mr. Executive President,” the first one says with a bow, “we have seen his trick and we can do the same. In any lake or river. A simple trick.”

  Truslow smirks. “Of course. That’s what I believed.” He raises his hand and sweeps it in our direction and addresses the crowd. “Do you really want to follow this man who calls himself Bram O’Shea, but is really Dalton Battista?” I follow his gaze and see my mother, the woman I thought was my mother, standing enraptured by Truslow, her hands clasped at her breast, her eyes fixed on him. I know her awful truth in an instant. The only good thing she ever did was to save me from the mandate. She’s his.

  “You think you want to follow him to the desert, but he will only lead you to a wandering starvation. Death.” He jabs a finger at a tall man, an old woman, a young boy, Barrett, Lydia, “You and you and you, all of you, you’re fools. You can have so much more here in Exodia. What can he do for you?”

  I hand the weapon to Harmon and take a step, rest my eyes on Lydia, and struggle for the words and the breath to speak them. This strange battle surges back and forth. My momentary success has been quelled by the intimidating stance of his soldiers. I bow to Truslow. “Mr. Executive President, please, you have to let us go. Things far worse than bloody water will plague Exodia if you don’t let us all leave.” My groveling voice shames me.

  I see Jamie. He comes up behind his father and whispers in his ear. They share a wicked laugh. Father nods at son and Jamie turns to a soldier, gives him a command, and he takes a
im at the crowd. A single burst of a nano-gun and a dozen people fall. I don’t see Lydia. My heart hammers fast. Please not Lydia. The screams, the panic, the pounding feet blur before me. Harmon grabs my elbow, points. I see Barrett pulling Lydia up the hill; he’d heard Jamie’s soft words and escaped with her.

  The four robed men clap their hands and praise Truslow. A soldier takes the rod from Harmon and pushes him to the ground. Another one shoves me and we’re made to bow low until all the people have left. I expect a bullet, but we’re pushed to our feet, forced to step over bodies, and marched back to our cell.

  * * *

  We’ve served seven more days in this prison. The guards have been generous with our food and drink. I suspect there have been bribes paid and that I must thank someone someday. Harmon thinks it’s Mira who’s paying, but I have other suspicions.

  Our heads are stubbly with a week’s growth of hair and beard to scratch at. We have nothing to do but talk.

  I have endless questions about our parents.

  “Yes,” he says for the umpteenth time, “they were west coasters and exposed to the radiation for quite a while. They knew the dangers of passing the mutated genes on, but there were no adverse symptoms at first. Mother didn’t believe Mira or I suffered any consequences.” He laughs as he adds something new, “Mira is a tireless dancer. Pretty quirky gemfry ability, don’t you think?”

  I nod and smile and scratch my chin. “And you’re sure you don’t have anything other than enhanced strength? No visions? Prophecies?”

  “Nope. And no special hearing or eagle eye sight or sense of smell. Thank goodness for that ’cause you really stink.”

  “You’re no flower either,” I say. “What about words? You aren’t afraid to make a speech.”

  “Yeah, I can vocalize in the vernacular,” he chuckles, “and address any group of men. Blues, Reds, leaders, laborers. No fear. But they don’t listen to me like they listen to you. You have the gift.”

  I wobble my head left and right. He must be kidding. But now I know some of my gemfry gifts: the anagrams and prophecies, the superior hearing, and the mind-reading when I touch someone.

  Harmon asks me about my feelings for Kassandra. And about Lydia. I stumble through my prickly answers. He expresses more than just a little prejudice against Lydia having darker skin, says he’s glad I chose a blond to marry. I feel uncomfortable, but I say nothing.

  Harmon has another question for me and I’m glad for the change of subject. “Have you ever heard of the Mourners?"

  I shake my head no, though something niggles at my memory. I expect him to tell me of some group of gemfries with a sad or deadly gift, but we’re interrupted.

  Four guards march loudly down the corridor and we rise. The first guard is holding the metal staff gingerly at its center.

  “Come with us. The Executive President insists that you reverse the curse on the river. He will listen to your demands again, at the river.”

  This time we’re taken in a truck and there are no crowds of people to observe the meeting. I’ve no idea if we can purify the water. I see dozens of holes dug everywhere. I wonder if the people have been digging for clean water. It makes me feel guilty.

  Jamie peers at me from his father’s side. There’s no warmth in his gaze. He seems much, much older. In hushed tones they discuss their plan, but I hear it all. Truslow holds too much trust in superstitions. Gruffly he acknowledges our presence and takes the metal rod from the guard and waves it over the river’s edge.

  “Fix it. Clean it up, but I’ll never let your people go for their silly festival.”

  I reach for the staff and hand it to Harmon.

  “No,” I say and mean it. “Let the Reds go. Three days. If you refuse to let them go, I’ll plague all of Exodia with rats. The rats will come into the capitol, nip at your heels, sink their teeth into your flesh. They will find their way into people’s houses and eat their food, piss on their beds, and bite them day and night. They will not leave until you let us go.”

  Truslow’s howling laughter is unnerving. I nod at Harmon and he lifts the rod and holds it out stiffly. He squeezes the second section and the rod emits a high pitched sound. I wince, but Jamie, Harmon, the guards and Truslow seem unaffected.

  Truslow dips his hand in the brackish water and shakes gray drops away. “Well? I’m waiting.” His tone is as reasonable as it is icy.

  But the water’s not going back to its crystal state. And now the rats are coming. I can hear their squeaks, the rustle of their feet on leaves.

  I repeat, “Let the Reds go.”

  Truslow smirks and shakes his head. That half-smile quickly morphs into a frown and a look of fear. Rats come into sight, emerging from the woods, appearing on the streets, swimming up the river, materializing all around us. I stand as still as Harmon. The guards run, surround their leader and his son, and race them away. Dozens of rats swarm after their vehicle.

  A single rat stalks us. I raise my hand and hold the staff along with my brother. The rodent gives a shudder, turns and heads for the slum. His tail is bent to the left.

  His tail is broken. Harks nobilities.

  “Harmon,” I lower my hand and he sets the end of the staff on the ground, “is there Blue blood in our veins?”

  * * *

  The third time Gresham’s cries woke Lydia in the night she gave up trying to sleep. She dressed, grabbed her backpack, sneaked out of the house, and headed for the shack where Barrett lived with his father. She stood in the street and spoke his name softly, knowing he would hear her, and join her in the early morning fog. The door creaked open and Barrett came out. He bent down and plucked at the leaves of some wintergreen plants, popped them in his mouth and began chewing them as he walked up to Lydia.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Something I don’t know about?”

  “Not really. Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe we could check out one of the internments.” Lydia hoped he knew this was her way of saying sorry.

  He spit out the leaves and said, “You mean look for the girls’ father.”

  Lydia nodded. She could always count on Bear to be on the same wave length. “Teague’s got that kid from the school apartments working the garbage detail there. He could help us find Raul Luna.”

  “Sun’ll be up in a couple of hours. We better hurry. Let me get my pack.”

  * * *

  They ran cautiously until they came out of the fog, then they sped up although the starlight was barely enough to see by. A block away from the fences they stripped off their packs and took a minute to pull out the necessary tools they’d need and review the plan they had kicked to the back burner a week ago. Piece of cake for two young rebels who’d done something like this twice before.

  Barrett left Lydia to set up the diversion while he jogged around the perimeter, listening, mentally cataloging sounds, and watching for guards. When he finished his sweep he gave her the bad news.

  “It’s not happening, Lydia.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Too many guards, too much going on. They already have everyone up. They’re taking them to dig wells.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Dalton’s fault, I guess, for contaminating the river.”

  Lydia let his remark slide. “I really want Kassandra and Katie and that baby gone.”

  “I thought you liked the baby.”

  She rolled her eyes. She did like the baby. It was Dalton’s, after all. Tiny and precious and nearly as bald as his father now was. She thought she’d die of emotional overload every time she was asked to hold him.

  “The baby’s cute,” she said, “but–” She chanced a cautious glance at Bear in the low light. He couldn’t possibly understand. He touched her hand. Lightly. Maybe he did understand.

  The rumble of a garage door drew their attention. The rolling metal door was behind the second fence. A garbage truck eased out. The huge door lumbered closed and at the last moment a dark figure rolled slowly beneath and shuffled onto the back of th
e truck.

  “Looks like somebody has an escape plan already.”

  “What do you think the odds could be that it would be their father?” Lydia rubbed at the back of her hand. “Sounded like all the Lunas had special gemfry attributes. Maybe he read our minds.”

  “Whoever it is, let’s give him an escort. We can come up with a Plan B later. Maybe go wherever they’re digging wells. Find this Luna guy.”

  Lydia was too well trained to sigh or argue or balk. She’d asked Bear to come with her, but, as in anything they did for the cause, he had the final say.

  They picked up their packs and zigzagged up the street and around the corner. The garbage truck headed that way after it cleared the final gate. When it passed them, well out of sight of the compound, they were ready to run alongside and jump on. But before they had a chance the truck grumbled to a halt and their friend jumped from the driver’s seat onto the road. He spotted Barrett and Lydia and waved them over.

  “Someone’s on my truck. Did you plan this?” His face was pinched, his words fast and hard.

  “No,” Lydia said, “but we’ll help get him away.”

  “You shouldn’t have stopped here,” Barrett hissed. “You’re not far enough away.” He leaped up on the side board and knocked on the metal. “Hey, jump out. Come on.”

  A man, filthy and ragged, swung a leg over the top and slid clumsily down to the ground.

  “Come with us,” Lydia said. She didn’t wait for a response. The man followed her up a side street, Barrett close behind. The garbage truck’s gears screeched and the truck lurched on in the other direction.

  As they went deeper into the slum the man began to slow his pace and cough. Barrett cued Lydia to stop.

  “Time for some introductions,” Barrett said. “She’s Lydia. I’m Bear.”

  The man bent over and huffed. Barrett yanked the man’s sleeve up. Even in the dark morning he could tell there was no tattoo at all.

  “I’m a priest,” he said as he coughed again, straightened, and wiped his mouth. “The stars…” he pointed, “it was a good night to escape.” He huffed and puffed some more. “My family … I’m trying to find my family. We got separated.”