by Brett Riley
Having managed to dodge Jerold Babb on the way up, Troy and Tetweiller stood in front of Stransky’s cell. She sat cross-legged on her bunk. Her greasy hair looked like a fistful of dead snakes. In the stifling heat, her clothing clung to her like a second skin. Cold in the winter, an oven in summer, barely deep enough for the cot and bucket that were the only accommodations prisoners were afforded, the towers were a special kind of hell.
But if the conditions bothered Stransky, she gave no sign. I reckon you boys got some news you can’t quite stomach, she said.
Ain’t nobody said nothin about a Purge, Troy said.
Stransky laughed. Hell. You think they’re just gonna ride in and admit it all? You ain’t in their circle. You’re too provincial.
Troy looked at Tetweiller, who shrugged. I think this salty bitch and Washington wouldn’t know the truth if it bit em on the ass, said the old man.
Fuck off, you old fart, Stransky said, though she sounded almost affectionate. Then she turned to Troy. Those bastards are gonna murder hundreds of thousands of people. Again.
Troy wiped sweat on his shirtsleeve. He opened his canteen and drank. Stransky licked her lips but asked for nothing. You knew about the explosives cache at Loyola, didn’t you? That’s what y’all were after.
Stransky pushed her grimy hair out of her eyes. We need more ordnance if we’re gonna stop their wall.
Why didn’t you just come to us? Troy asked. We wouldn’t have believed you, and you would have ended up here just the same, but your men might still be alive. You could have told your story.
Stransky took hold of the bars and looked Troy in the eye. Givin up ain’t my nature, and I didn’t trust you not to shoot me on sight.
How could you know about a new Purge? Even the herald don’t know many details.
Could be he’s lyin.
I looked in his eyes. I believe him.
Stransky groaned. You been lord of order here for years. I bet you got a hundred letters from some asshole in Washington worryin about leaks and spies and shit.
Troy grunted. He did not have a hundred such letters, but over the years he had gotten several, each warning him to watch for suspicious activities in even his most trusted associates.
What of it? he said.
They were right. We got people in high places, includin one in Rook’s inner circle.
Bullshit, Tetweiller said. His face was red in the heat, his voice husky.
We need proof, Troy said.
Stransky sneered. What, like a signed confession? Dear Local Asshole, I’m gonna destroy the world again.
So I’m supposed to take your word for it.
We’ve heard rumors for months—mass arrests, mobile prison camps, scorched-earth policies, torture. We got the first tale from a river merchant, who heard it from a fella up in Illinois. We laughed it off. Third- and fourth-hand bullshit. Not even Rook’s that crazy, right? Same shit you’re probably sayin to yourself right now. We didn’t believe the second report either, or the tenth. But once our inside man confirmed, we had to face some hard truths. Rook’s grabbin folks from coast to coast, from upper Canada all the way to the Gulf. By the time you see it all for yourself, you’ll be chokin on your own blood.
Tetweiller spat. Rook’s enough of a hard case to do it.
The whole inner circle’s hard cases, Stransky said. They branded crosses over their hearts. Not a tattoo. Not a cut with a little bitty knife. A brand. It’s proof of who’s committed. These folks are so fanatical, they make you boys look like alcoholic pederasts. Besides, let’s say we’re wrong about the Purge. The prison part’s been confirmed, so this city’s still dead. Can y’all live with that?
Tetweiller cleared his throat. Gabe, can I talk to you outside?
Stransky laughed and lay back on her cot. She shooed them away and closed her eyes. Troy watched her for a moment and then followed Tetweiller down the stairs and into his office. Tetweiller took a visitor’s chair. Troy sat behind his desk and leaned back, propping his feet up. His dusty boots looked like a gun sight aimed at Tetweiller’s head.
She’s tellin the truth, the old man said.
Troy nodded. Or believes she is. When Santonio and LaShanda come by your place today, tell em about the prison part. If they get as nervous and mad as me and you, tell em everything and start makin them plans we talked about.
Tetweiller leaned forward and looked Troy in the eye. And if they wanna bend over for Washington?
Troy rubbed his temples. Another headache. Like I said. Follow your conscience.
A white building at the intersection of Canal and South Carrollton housed the first weapons cache on Troy’s list. Crusade records indicated the place had once served as a fresh market. Now it held gunpowder, bullets, homemade plastique, and pipe bombs. Like all the armories, it was guarded. Weapons troops had standing orders to destroy everything rather than let it fall into Troubler hands. In the Crusade’s long history, the rebels had successfully captured only one armory, and that had happened in Seattle. New Orleans Troublers had come close once, years before Tetweiller’s time. The lord of order had detonated the ordnance before they could overrun the place, taking himself, most of the Troublers, and all the guards with it.
Six sentries were currently assigned to the white building’s day shift—two in the front, two in back, and two inside. The front-door men saluted as Troy and Japeth ambled up. He saluted back with the hand holding his reins. Then he dismounted and tied Japeth to the hitching post and dug an inkwell, a quill, and a sheaf of blank paper out of his saddlebags.
Howdy, Troy said to the men.
Lord Troy, said the shorter guard, Vu Dang, touching his hat brim. Dang lived in the Eighth Ward, if memory served. He loved any dish with crawfish. Sweat had plastered his black hair to his head. His almond-colored eyes were sharp and clear, his gun hand steady. He had won several shooting competitions over the years. At five feet, eight inches and one hundred and thirty pounds, he did not look particularly imposing—a mistake more than one dead Troubler had made.
Dang’s taller, heavier, less-seasoned partner, Oswaldo Caskey, hitched up his sagging britches and said, Hot enough for you? His fair skin was flushed bright pink, perhaps burned. The long red hair on his head and chin waved in the breeze like Spanish moss.
Too hot, Troy said. I’m ordered to make an inventory. Probably gonna let the folks inside come out here with y’all for a spell. Conversation might make me lose count.
Yes, sir, said Caskey. Dang touched his hat brim again.
Inside, a thick smell of gunpowder. If anyone struck a match, the very air would ignite and send a city block to hell. The ordnance had been stacked on rusting metal shelves, remnants of the ancients. Can’t use those for a writin table. This pen has a metal tip. If it scrapes the shelf and sparks, I won’t need to worry about Dwyer and Rook. Pipe bombs lay side by side like enormous birthday candles, fuses poking from the tops. Boxes containing bricks of plastique were stacked five feet high on pallets. Guns of all kinds hung on hooks. Boxes of matching shells sat on more shelves. Crates of bladed weapons were stacked against the walls. Everything had been crafted by artisans like LaShanda Long, who could make a weapon out of nearly anything.
The nearest dynamite cache was located three blocks to the south. That would be Troy’s next stop. If one of the dynamite huts ever exploded, the nearest weapons would hopefully survive, though no one alive had ever seen such a conflagration. Troy hoped Long’s people had rotated out the older sticks recently. He had no desire to spend any time amid the nitroglycerin sweat of old dynamite.
Troy pulled out his pen and set the inkpot on a shelf full of pipe bombs. He straightened the sheaf of papers on a box top and tied his bandana around his nose and mouth. Then he started counting.
Tetweiller had drawn the hunter-green curtains he had chosen years ago, now thin enough to let in the light even
when closed. He sat in his favorite chair, an oak straight-back with a soft cushion for his lower back, its arms covered in half-finished doodles he had carved with his pocketknives over the years as he pondered life’s mysteries and frustrations. Tetweiller sipped from a glass of whiskey. LaShanda Long and Santonio Ford sat across from him on his couch’s threadbare, forest-green down cushions. Ford was dressed in his usual deerskins, his dreadlocks hanging past his shoulders. Long wore a sundress, likely because of the heat, though in her forges, she wore skins or heavy cloth to protect her from sparks. Her hair fell to the middle of her back. When Tetweiller was lord and had access to the forbidden histories, he had read that before the Purge, two dark-skinned people sitting in an old white man’s parlor would have been controversial, even unthinkable. I ain’t never understood that shit. Might as well shut out all the folks with blue eyes or red hair. Long’s the best weaponsmith I’ve ever known, and Ford’s the best hunter. Great fighters too. Always liked em. Hope we don’t gotta kill each other.
Long drank from the glass of ice water she had requested, her face blank. She had always been nearly impossible to read, even for an old law like Tetweiller.
Their glasses clinked on wood as they set them down, picked them up, set them down. No one, it seemed, wanted to start. Something in the kitchen creaked—old wood reshaping itself in the muggy Louisiana temperatures. Behind Long and Ford stood the entrance to the darkened hallway, which led back to the bedrooms and bathroom. It reminded the old man of his afternoon nap, which he was currently missing. Despite his bunched muscles, tensed against the potential confrontation, Tetweiller yawned.
Hands on his knees, Ford watched Tetweiller as if the old man were a buck slipping through the dawn forests. It’s too hot to sit inside like this, he said. Why are we here?
Tetweiller sipped more whiskey. His mouth tingled; his throat burned. Gabe showed me them orders the herald brought. Washington’s gonna wall off New Orleans and make it a prison.
What? said Long. She set her glass on the side table and narrowed her eyes.
You heard me, Tetweiller said. Ford and Long looked at each other, then back at him. Both seemed to be waiting for him to go on.
Fuck it, Tetweiller thought. Time to find out which side of the bed they sleep on. If it’s Dwyer’s, maybe I can get one of em before they reach the door. The other one will get me, most likely. But I’ve fought beside em ever since they came of age. I owe em the first move.
We’ve also heard Rook’s plannin a new Purge. If that’s true, the prison’s just an excuse to get all the Troublers in one place. Our people will be here too. They ain’t relocatin us.
Ford had leaned forward as Tetweiller talked. Now he fell back against the couch, eyes wide. Long looked stunned.
That’s insane, she said.
I know it, Tetweiller said. But Stransky swears it’s true.
Stransky? I trust her about as far as I can throw the Temple.
Me too. But she knew about Dwyer and what his orders would say. As for the Purge, they wouldn’t write that kind of thing down and entrust it to one man. Not even that oak tree with arms.
Long shook her head. If this came from Willa McClure, I might believe it. But Stransky—
Stransky’s crazier than a shithouse rat, Tetweiller said. But Gabe and me believe her. She says the prisoners and their guards are marchin on us now, and Rook’s sendin envoys to take charge of New Orleans.
Ford stood and paced. Take charge. Like we ain’t competent. Or don’t they trust us?
Long studied Tetweiller. That ain’t why we’re here, Santonio. Ernie don’t plan to go along.
Ford stopped pacing and goggled at the old man.
Look, said Tetweiller, ain’t nobody sayin we should mount up and ambush the envoys. We’re just sayin it’s best to consider all our options. We might could live with seein our town ruined. But what if Washington plans to take the citizens with it? Do we let that happen?
We could get thrown in the towers just for talkin about this, Ford said.
The towers don’t scare me, Tetweiller said. Not when you stack em against smashin our town and maybe slaughterin our people. This whole damn place will be one big tower, and we’re all gonna be stuck in it for the rest of our short-ass lives.
He told them of how Rook had named Troy the warden, that Troy intended to show them the letter so they could see for themselves. As he spoke, the defiance and most of the disbelief drained from their faces.
Lord above, Ford said.
Here’s the best-case scenario, Tetweiller said. Stransky’s wrong about the Purge. You keep your positions. But we’ll still be neck-deep in Troublers, and the main job’s gonna be to make sure they don’t escape. We’ll swim in blood every day. Worst case? That fuckin harpy is right, and we’re all on Rook’s list. Me, I can’t abide any of it.
It’s insane, Long said again, her brow furrowed. We’re faithful.
Tetweiller set the whiskey flask on his side table. He got up and poured himself a glass of water and sat again, sipping it. It ain’t about our faith, he said. It’s about Rook’s fanaticism. Once the town’s sealed in, everybody’s dead.
Ford poured himself another glass. His hands trembled. I don’t see how a wall can keep the Troublers in unless we rip out everything they could use to build ladders. Even then, they could find a way. The guards would have to outnumber the Troublers four to one or keep em chained forever.
And if you’re gonna do that, Long said, why bother with a prison at all? Why not just execute em or chain em together limb to limb until they can’t move? There must be a reason they want em all in one place, other than convenience.
It’s symbolic, Ford said. So future generations will talk about New Orleans like we talk about Sodom and Gomorrah. Plus, you know how the Purge worked. Maybe Washington’s got hold of them plagues like Jonas Strickland used. Could be New Orleans is the test case.
Tetweiller rubbed one hand on his face. It rasped against his gray stubble. He had already thought of all this. So had Troy. And that meant Rook had too. Every second they sat here debating brought the massed Troublers and armed Crusaders closer. Once that mob arrived, it would be much harder to plan and much more tempting to give in.
So it’s over, Long said. We guard, or we die.
Tetweiller sipped again, for courage, and cleared his throat. Or it’s like you said. We don’t go along.
Long regarded him, her jaw set. Ford shook his head and slammed his fist on the wooden arm of the couch.
That’s heresy, Long said.
Like I told you. We’re just weighin all the options.
When can we see these orders? Ford asked.
When Gabe can talk to you without Dwyer lookin over his shoulder.
He could have left the orders here so we could see em now, Long said.
Tetweiller laughed. Sure. Pass around eyes-only documents. Good way to get hung.
You want us to talk heresy, but you don’t trust us with the proof.
It ain’t about trust, Tetweiller said. You think we’d be talkin at all if we didn’t trust you?
We. You, Ford said. Sounds like two sides to me.
Only if you make it that way. You need to decide where you stand.
The men’s gazes locked. Ford’s hunting knife glistened in the dim light.
On the way over here, I passed one of our armories, Long said. I saw Jack and Gordy’s horses outside.
Tetweiller watched Ford, the distance between the hunter’s hand and the knife. More orders, the old man said. They’re takin inventory of our explosives and our boats. Every .22 shell and leaky raft.
Ford and Long looked at each other, something passing between them.
Ford unsheathed the knife.
Tetweiller drew his gun, but Ford leaped from the couch and snatched it before he could fire.
Shit.
I was kiddin myself. I’m too old to get even one of em. Sorry, Gabe.
Long drew her gun too.
Then Ford put one finger to his lips and handed the gun back to Tetweiller.
What the fuck?
The former lord of order listened. At first, nothing. Then, the soft sound of footfalls on the cracked and fractured concrete driveway, the click-click-click of spiked boots or claws. Someone was coming.
He signaled Ford and Long to hold their positions.
He turned and pointed his gun toward the entryway.
Someone knocked.
I think we know who it is, Tetweiller said, lowering his weapon.
He walked into the foyer, Long and Ford close behind. The old man opened the door. McClure stood on the front step, the Rottweiler at her heel. The dog’s pink tongue lolled onto his black-and-brown fur. The girl was dressed in the same cotton shirt and soiled trousers she had worn during the raid. Her face was dirty, her blond hair greasy and askew. Everyone holstered their weapons.
We’ve missed y’all down at the forges, Long said.
Tetweiller raised his eyebrows. Is that where she stays nowadays?
Only sometimes, at suppertime, Long said, grinning at the girl. Where you been?
The child, tall for a twelve-year-old and lean, took off her hat and beat the dust from it. Here and there. I was with these fellas at Loyola.
Tetweiller smiled. You sure were. Come on in. We’ll get y’all some water.
The adults stood aside. McClure headed for the kitchen as Tetweiller shut the door. They followed McClure as she sat at the table. Ford and Long joined her.
Gathered in a kitchen, chatting about their days, they could have been a normal family. Ain’t nothin normal about any of us, though. When McClure was two years old, a Troubler bomb killed both her parents, along with dozens of other citizens. As the city mourned, the girl slept on a cot in the Temple prison. She stayed a few years until, one day, she simply wandered off. No one could find her, not even the lord’s office. She had come back when she was good and ready, none the worse for wear and bearing news about a Troubler nest massing east of town. As everyone geared up, McClure wandered off again and set her life’s pattern. In a sense, every Crusader in the city had adopted her. She slept in spare rooms and storage buildings and stables. She hid in places no one ever discovered. She ate out of people’s gardens and from Ford’s crops, at the table of whatever Crusader she happened to meet near mealtime. No one knew where she had found the dog. It seemed tame, but no one in the city recognized it. McClure had just walked into Jackson Square one day, a pup at her side. They had been together ever since. They bathed in the great river. The girl would not enter a dwelling where the dog was unwelcome, which is why she had not been inside the High Temple since adopting him. She would never reveal how she got so close to the Troublers without getting caught, but her information was always good.