Emergency Transmission

by Sean McLachlan

  This was the Promised Land.

  If only he’d survive long enough to enjoy it. The Reverend practically had to carry him the last few hundred meters past the tents and shacks, the ragged inhabitants staring at the two curiously, until they made it to a handsome frame building with a wooden cross painted white jutting from the steeple.

  Without saying a word, they both stopped.

  “I’ve made it,” David whispered.

  “You have, brother,” Reverend Wallace said. “My house is around back. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Someone called from across the street.

  “Hey Reverend, looks like you found a lost sheep.”

  The Reverend laughed at that. “Lost no more, Veronica, lost no more.”

  Rounding the church, they came to a little frame house with flowers planted out front, now sadly wilted. David’s head spun and he had trouble focusing. He got a vague impression of a living room with a few books on a shelf and two comfortable chairs, then a short hallway past a tiny bedroom to a bathroom with a porcelain bathtub from the Old Times. One of those curved pipes they used to call taps stood at one end.

  He heard the Reverend’s voice come as if from a great distance. “Water piped in from New City. I’m a citizen, you see, and this is my one luxury. No hot water like you see in the movies, but I’ll put some wood in the stove and heat some up for you. Strip down and get in the tub. You’ll have to do that yourself. The New World United Church accepts all sorts, but that doesn’t mean we have to participate, do we? Ha! Let God judge, that’s what I say.”

  When the Reverend left the room, David slumped to the floor. On instinct he carefully set aside his gear and the guns out of reach of the tub so they wouldn’t get any wetter than they were already. He’d have to strip and clean the guns once he recovered. Feeling sick all over, he peeled off his soaking clothes and crawled into the bathtub.

  He stared at the tap. How did it work?

  David drifted off for a time, only to awaken to the sensation of water lapping over his chest. He sat bolt upright and splashed about.

  “Whoa! Easy there. Your boat’s not sinking, you’re taking a bath!”

  The Reverend’s kind face appeared above him. Blearily David looked at the tap and gasped.

  Water was pouring from it! It was like a waterfall in miniature. How did that work?

  The water had already filled the bath halfway to the top. It was cold but David didn’t mind. It was clean. The Reverend poured a bucket of steaming water into the bath and the water grew warm.

  “Here, take this soap. I hope you don’t mind me saying that you need it. Rodney is cleaning your clothes outside. Give yourself a good scrub, and then we’ll drain this bath and fill it up again. It’s a bit extravagant to have two baths the same day but I think we can make an exception in your case. You’re more than welcome to stay here until you recover but I’d rather not feel ill every time we’re in the same room.”

  Feeling refreshed already, David scrubbed himself down, the suds mixing with the oily gunk from his body. Once done, Reverend Wallace showed him how to empty the bath and fill it again, and brought another bucket of hot water.

  This time David felt more relaxed, and luxuriated in the sensation of being immersed in water the same temperature as his body. He’d never sat in a bathtub before. The only ones he’d seen were cracked and broken wrecks in landfills and some faded photographs in old magazines.

  Photographs! He glanced at his bag. Had the camera survived?

  No time to check that now, the Reverend poked his head through the door.

  “Here’s a towel. Get yourself dried up. Rodney is making lunch. I hope you can get some food down you. Your clothes are hanging above the stove drying. I’ll bring them in shortly.”

  Once David got dry and put on his clothes, he walked down the short hallway to the living room. His limbs felt heavy and creaky, but his skin no longer stank. A meal sounded like a wonderful idea.

  Now that he was more awake, he took in the contents of the living room. Two handmade, cushioned chairs stood facing each other over a battered little metal table from the Old Times. The Reverend Wallace sat in one of the chairs, smiling at him.

  “You look better.”

  “I feel better. Thank you.”

  A painting of a white Jesus hung above the fireplace. Like many other homes, the walls were decorated with photos taken from old magazines. They showed giant churches shining in the sun, plus a few rainbows and sunsets.

  “This is a cheery place,” David said, sitting down.

  “Home sweet home,” the Reverend replied.

  Suddenly David burst into tears. The kindness from a stranger, the luxury of the bath, the beautiful pictures, this comfortable room, it was all too much. He’d never had a home like this, just a ragged little lean-to on the beach with his parents, but they had had pictures of churches too, and this place gave him the same feeling.

  The Reverend placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK, son. The Lord guided you to this place for a reason. It’s all part of a greater plan.”

  A door opening made David look up. He hadn’t survived this long without responding to any sound of movement.

  A thin white man stood at the door with a tray holding two steaming bowls and some bread. David’s stomach grumbled but he studied the newcomer warily. He had the appearance of a man who had starved for a long time and hadn’t yet fully recovered. His face was sunken and lined, and he walked with a stoop. His eyes were downcast and had a beaten, lightless look to them.

  A slave, David realized. This man has been a slave.

  A sudden prickling realization made his heart beat fast.

  Oh, no.

  “David, this is Rodney, one of my congregation. He had a run-in with the same cult you did but didn’t get off so easily. They enslaved him for several months, forcing him to carry packs. After we defeated them, he was one of the many to escape. My church has taken in many of these refugees.”

  “We’re so grateful, Reverend,” Rodney said in a croaking voice. David noticed the livid line of a fresh scar on his throat.

  “All gratitude should go to the Lord, Rodney. It was He who really saved you,” the Reverend said, although he looked pleased with his servant’s gratitude.

  Rodney glanced at David but gave him that blank look white people so often made. David didn’t spot any hostility there, but he also didn’t see any recognition beyond taking in the color of his skin.

  For once the careless looks white people gave him worked in David’s favor. He only hoped Rodney wouldn’t recognize him as an individual, and remember seeing him before.

  “Oh, and Rodney,” the Reverend said. “David here has a boat on the south beach. You’ll know it as soon as you see it. It’s the only boat on that stretch. Send one of the farmhands to watch it. Send Alan. He’s reliable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rodney placed the tray on the table and left.

  David dove for the food, checked himself, and put his hands together.

  He and the Reverend said grace.

  The meal was vegetable stew with a few bits of chicken in it. It and the bread tasted delicious, and it took all of David’s willpower not to gobble it down in three seconds. With his stomach in such a bad state, he needed to pace himself.

  Once he got halfway through his meal he asked, “So how many refugees are there in New City?”

  “In New City? None. Noncitizens aren’t allowed inside the walls without permission, and they’re never allowed to live there. I think it’s uncharitable, as do a few fellow citizens, but we’ve been outvoted so many times we don’t bring it up at council meetings anymore. The refugees all live in the Burbs, or along the shore. The Doctor gave them hooks and lines and many work as fishermen. Some are on farms too. I have fifteen working my lands. They were weak and slow at first, but now that they’re getting their strength back they’re some of the best workers I have.”

  “How many of them are
there?” David asked again. It was risky pressing the issue, but he needed to know how much danger he was in.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Two, three hundred perhaps.”

  Hundreds of them. Even if most lived on farms or on the beach, that still left far too many around the Burbs who could remember his face.

  A strange sound came through the open window. It sounded like musical instruments but not like any he had ever heard before. There was a wailing flute, and the clash of cymbals, and something that sounded like a deep horn.

  Reverend Wallace leaped to his feet, his face growing red as he glared out the window.

  “Those blasted people are at it again! Oh Lord, why won’t they leave us in peace!”

  “What is that?” David asked.

  “It’s them, the Chinese! Playing that Devil’s imitation of music!”

  The Reverend stormed over to the window and slammed the shutters. David blinked at him in surprise. Why was he so upset? It wasn’t that loud.

  “If it bothers you why don’t you ask them to play more quietly?” David asked.

  “Why don’t I ask them to head off into the wildlands and never come back? That’s what I really want to ask them, but if I do that then I’m the bad one. I’m the one who deserves Blame, instead of them!”

  David paused a moment. So much had happened since he had been in the Righteous Horde he’d forgotten how most people hated the Chinese. They’d been accepted in the Horde. Everyone who was free of toxins had a place.

  The Reverend stomped around the living room, his hands balled into fists.

  “They were hiding amongst us all this time, and when that ship came one of them acted as translator, seduced The Doctor, and we ended up trading with them instead of blowing them out of the water!”

  “Wait, the freighter is Chinese?” David blurted out. He could have kicked himself for saying it, because how could he possibly know about the freighter if his story about being down south were true? He started thinking up an excuse about meeting another fisherman on the sea who told him, but he needn’t have bothered. The Reverend Wallace wasn’t paying attention.

  “They came all the way from China to dangle baubles in front of our faces. Came with a big boatload of rice too. Convenient, isn’t it? Showed up right after a toxic rain ruined half the crop. But did anyone think to question that little bit of timing? Oh no, they’re our friends from across the sea! Long lost brothers!”

  “Um, but—”

  “So we buy up a bunch of their rice, giving them all sorts of things in trade, including a crane! A crane, of all things! What are they going to do with it? It was so large we never had a use for it, so what do they need it for? If gambling wasn’t a sin I’d bet this house that they’re going to build more ships, a whole navy so they can invade!”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Oh, they’re wily, they’re cunning, like all the Devil’s minions are,” the Reverend growled, sweat pouring off his face. His hands trembled as he walked in fast, tight circles in the middle of the room. “But I can’t say that. Oh no, that would be Blame! You know the sheriff warned me to stop speaking my mind from the pulpit? Now I can’t even preach God’s word! I can’t warn good Christians against the greatest danger God’s people ever faced!”

  David’s eyes narrowed. The Reverend didn’t go on. Not because he saw David’s expression—he was oblivious to everything except his own rant—instead he seemed too overcome with rage to form words. He stood there, shaking, eyes unfocused, or focused on something far away.

  David had seen that look, too many times. It was the look of someone who couldn’t put something behind them. It was the look of pain transferred onto another person.

  Or group of people.

  David lifted himself out of the chair. Every muscle and bone weighed him down with weariness. He reached into his pack, pulled out a Blue Can, and set it on the table.

  As the metal clanked on the wood surface, the Reverend snapped out of his fury and looked at him curiously.

  “I’m on a journey,” David explained, “and this isn’t where I’m supposed to end up. Take this can as trade for the bath and lunch. I don’t want to owe you.”

  David picked up his bag and his guns and trudged out of the door, leaving the Reverend standing alone in the middle of the room.

  David headed for the thickest part of the Burbs, not knowing where he was going. He didn’t get fifty meters before he heard the Reverend shouting behind him.

  “Devil! You’re a Devil come to help them! Get thee from my sight, you abomination! You’ll be the ruin of us all!”

  David kept on going. He heard the slam of a door but didn’t look back. He strolled along the muddy lane, looking around him in wonder. A few stalls beside the road sold battered items from the Old Times or newly made crafts, while at open-air workshops people sawed logs or cured leather. The smell of soup wafted through the air from a little restaurant made up of nothing but a few planks and rough seats set in front of a cooking pit. Someone sat down and a woman ladled some soup into an old plastic bowl from a big pot simmering over the flames. David had to angle to one side as three laughing children shot past him, kicking a ball made from old cloth tied together with twine.

  He remembered the first time he had come here, back when he was part of a conquering army. The Burbs had been abandoned, everyone having fled behind the walls of New City, taking anything of value with them. David and some of the others in his faction had scoured through a few homes looking for anything of worth and came up with nothing.

  They hadn’t searched for long, because soon The Pure One ordered an attack. They’d swarmed up against the wall and gotten mown down. They’d dismantled dozens of houses to make rafts to get at the peninsula from the sides, and got tangled in barbed wire and mown down again. They’d lost hundreds of fighters. David figured they’d killed at least a couple of hundred defenders, he knew he’d killed a few himself, but that counted for nothing compared to the Horde’s losses.

  Looking around, it seemed that the homes they’d wrecked had been rebuilt. It was like the Righteous Horde had never passed through here.

  David snorted in disgust. All that planning, all that struggle, brushed away.

  What a waste. They didn’t have to attack. A sane leader would have made a deal. The Righteous Horde had plenty to trade, more arms and gear than it needed. They could have traded for food, or land. They could have settled here.

  And some had. He passed a skeletally thin man, his cheeks sunken, eyes like pellets in deep sockets. David could tell immediately that he had been one of the porters. They had all looked like that. He was carrying a load of firewood on a basket. He was still a porter, but now he was free.

  The porter glanced in his direction. David ducked between two sheds made of scrap metal and hurried to the next street over.

  He found himself moving closer to the New City wall, a tall barrier made up of sheets of steel, old vehicles, and sandbags. Even from almost a kilometer away it gave him the chills. He could practically see the sparks as bullets panged off its surface, practically smell the burning bodies of his comrades writhing in agony at its base.

  He turned away to shake off the memories. A large building up ahead caught his eye. It was decked out in garish, multicolored lights, all turned off at the moment. A big sign on top had a strange symbol followed by the numbers “87,953”. Two black men strolled up to the front door, opened it, and entered, closing the door behind them.

  Curious, David went up to the door. On it was a sign that said, “Roy loves everybody.”

  David snorted.

  You wouldn’t love me if you knew what I’d done.

  The sound of talk and laughter came from within. The place had the look of a big shop or a food hall or something.

  David opened the door to look inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was still early, but a good crowd had shown up for the regular Tuesday get together. Not as much as on a Sund
ay, of course, because a lot of folks had to head to the fields or get a jump on the trading day.

  Jaylen had set up his barber’s chair. It was an ancient thing, bulky and made of cast iron, a bit like Jaylen himself. Roy had never seen another one like it outside of an old magazine. The thing weighed a ton and Roy always griped about having to haul it out of the back room every Tuesday morning. He always needed Jaylen and at least one other person to help.

  “Why can’t we just leave it out here?” Roy had asked once.

  “Because someone will puke on it.”

  The man had a point.

  The chair sat empty. It looked like Jaylen wouldn’t have any takers this week. It didn’t matter; people came for the talk. Ethan was crowing to Justin and Tyler about last Sunday’s checkmate against Malik while Jamal and Caleb sat in a corner talking books. Roy was cleaning up the tables and listening in, still wondering how the hell he was going to pull off Chinese New Year’s without having his business burned down.

  The door opened, sunlight silhouetting an unfamiliar figure.

  “Bar’s closed,” Roy called out.

  The figure shifted and Roy saw the man’s face.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, brother. Come on in!”

  He looked ragged, exhausted, but he was well equipped with a pack, full camo, and a pair of AKs strapped to his back and a 9mm on his belt. The newcomer took a step inside and looked around uncertainly.

  “I thought you said the bar was closed,” he said.

  “Members only club on Tuesday mornings,” Roy said.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “You’re automatically a member.”

  The man saw all the black faces and grinned. “Right on.”

  “Come on in and get out of the stink. I’m Roy. This is my bar. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

  The man shuffled across the room to them. “I’m David. Been in the wildlands for a while. I was here once, a long time ago. Never got to come in here, though.”