by Brett Riley
Dwyer reappeared later that day. He knocked three times and entered Troy’s office without waiting for an answer. He took one of Troy’s straight-backed chairs, settled his thick frame into it, and took out his string.
Good morning, he said. What have you discovered about our egregious security breach?
Troy picked up his mug of coffee and blew on it, eyeing Dwyer over the rim. The herald’s face was impassive. You’d make a fine cardsharp, if anybody but Troublers gambled.
We got men combin the streets, Troy said. Nothin so far, but Stransky’s always been good at goin to ground. As for the others, you saw em. With them masks, there ain’t no way to find em unless we catch a prisoner that’ll talk.
Dwyer nodded, as if he had expected precisely this answer. The string skittered back and forth, hypnotic. Yes, he said. I’ve dealt with their ilk before.
I reckon Washington’s got it worse than we do. I feel for y’all.
My thanks. What else?
We doubled the guard and the street patrols with orders to engage and capture. If anybody even thinks wrong, we’ll get em.
Dwyer said nothing. The string metamorphosed into starbursts, a series of parallel lines, a circled letter A. Then he stood and went to the window and looked out. Troy fidgeted and sipped his coffee. He did not like the way Dwyer contemplated the water. If the herald discovered Troy and the others had met down there mere hours before the Temple assault, they might have to kill him.
Troy cleared his throat and said, I got some new munitions figures. We’re about sixty percent done with the inventory.
Dwyer turned back to him. The string had stopped moving, covering half his fingers like threadbare gloves. You’ll need to hurry. I expect the first arrivals in a day, perhaps two.
That soon?
Not soon enough. I have not seen your high minister. Dwyer glanced around the room as if Babb, heretofore invisible, might reveal himself.
Jerold seemed half dead this mornin, so I sent him home. He’s old, and he ain’t used to lookin down the business end of a pistol.
I hope he is well. I shall check back soon. Dwyer pocketed his string and offered Troy his hand. Troy stood and shook it. The herald started to leave, but he paused in the doorway and looked back. There is something to consider. You might ask your citizens about Stransky’s escape.
Troy frowned. Why would I ask them? What good would it do?
Because somewhere out there, in your city or beyond, someone knows. And because ferreting out a traitor might be worth the trouble of asking—harshly.
Harshly. Troy crossed his arms. I don’t know what you mean.
After a moment, Dwyer smiled. Never mind, he said.
When Dwyer was gone, Troy sat and closed his eyes. He sighed and opened his drawers. He took out the maps of the armories and spent the next hour calculating how long they could delay the final accounting. When he finished, he got up and walked to the window. The day was bright, the azure sky spotted with clouds. On the square, people came and went, oblivious, blind.
Troy drank the rest of his coffee and set the cup on the windowsill. Outriders in New Orleans as early as tomorrow. A demand for the inventory lists. He needed to speak with Lynn Stransky sooner than planned.
Sister Sarah met Troy at the entrance, her habit soaked with sweat. She looked up and down the street. Then she led Troy into the vestibule. Sunspots played across his vision like fireworks. A figure sat on the first pew.
That Crusader you’re babysittin better not have followed you, Sister Sarah said. I’ll burn this house down before I let him take it.
This ain’t my first picnic.
She turned and hugged him. He would not have been more surprised if she had sprouted wings. I’m glad you made it through that madness, she said.
Troy barely heard her. What would her hair look like, spillin over her shoulders? Her slim and graceful throat, her skin—but no. Sinful thoughts, more so because she believed herself wed to Christ Himself. If she wasn’t, I would have started somethin that would have damned us both a long time ago.
He wriggled out of her arms, feeling his face redden. Thank goodness she could not see it. She clasped her hands at her waist while he pulled out a soggy handkerchief and mopped his brow, leaving both his forehead and the cloth wetter than before. He lifted his chin in Stransky’s direction. She drivin you crazy?
Nothin we can’t handle. She had a visitor this mornin, so I expect she’ll have news. He was a dirty fella who looked like he needed a month of good meals.
Someone had lit the wall lamps. Votives burned on the altar, casting globular and shifting pools of light onto Stransky. She gazed at the hanging wooden cross, her head cocked to one side, her hair askew. Drop her into any other church in any other city and you might mistake her for a Christian. Just a good woman sitting on a strong pew, heart right with God and soul unstained with curses and thefts and bloody murders.
Troy and Sister Sarah stepped in front of Stransky. I was just admirin your decorations, Sister, the Troubler said. Fancy as shit. Oak?
Sister Sarah scowled. This is the last time I’m warnin you about your language. From now on, you can use it out yonder. In the light of day.
Stransky laughed. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Say, do you wear panties under that getup?
Troy took Sister Sarah’s arm, pulling her closer to the altar. She looked like something out of a painting—unwrinkled, cherubic, her complexion like strong coffee shot with milk. He squeezed her upper arm, liking the feel of the hard muscle there, the strength.
I really appreciate you lettin her stay, he said.
Sarah lifted her hand to his face, her fingers rasping through his stubble, and said, If she can help New Orleans, she’s a friend. Even if she acts like a five-year-old.
They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, still touching, a foot apart. Such a short distance, and such an impossible journey. Like stepping outside your door and onto the moon.
Then Stransky chuckled. Sister Sarah’s hand dropped. Troy backed away.
Awww, Stransky said. Y’all are so cute.
And you’ve got a hole where your heart should be, Sister Sarah said.
You don’t know nothin about me.
Then it seems we’re both ignorant. Sister Sarah turned back to Troy. Watch your back.
Always.
She walked to the back door and put her hand on the knob. Hurt him, Sarah said, and I may forget my vows long enough to scratch your eyes out. Bible study’s in one hour. Don’t be late.
Stransky cackled.
If only Troy could disappear into the bowels of the nunnery until whatever was coming had passed by or conquered. He felt bone-weary. A lifetime of battle and responsibility had settled deep into him like sickness. On most days, the faces of the citizens kept him going. But now everything seemed to be crumbling. The Crusade had betrayed them, but Matthew Rook ruled the world. What could he do against that?
Well, well. Looks like you’re human after all. Stransky tittered.
He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt. No idea what you’re babblin about.
You and Sister Tightpants there. You got the hots for each other. You in love, or does she just make your pecker stand up and salute?
Troy knotted his hands into Stransky’s shirt and yanked her upright, his face two inches from hers. Don’t talk about her. Not ever. Or I’ll put a bullet in your gut.
You need me.
Not that bad.
Stransky laughed again. Troy shoved her back onto the pew.
Oh sure, she said. You’re just friends.
Troy gritted his teeth. You had a visitor. Tell me about that before I kick your teeth in.
Stransky patted the pew. Troy sat, keeping distance between them. He checked his pistols, making sure they were tied down. Sometimes the hand moved wit
hout the brain’s leave. Stransky faced him, tucking her legs beneath her.
Fella was one of my runners, she said. He brought news from our man inside Rook’s inner circle.
Am I supposed to guess what he told you?
First off, he passed the marchers’ vanguard. They’re a day out, two at the most.
That’s what Dwyer said. We ain’t nowhere near ready.
That ain’t the biggest problem.
What’s worse than that?
Rook plans to use bioweapons again, just like the first Purge.
Troy’s mouth fell open. What?
Stransky grinned. She seemed to enjoy his discomfort. Yep. They ain’t got enough left for the whole world, though, so they’re plannin to use topography wherever they can. Settin wildfires in California. Confiscatin winter fuel up in Canada and Minnesota. They’re gonna do somethin like that here. I reckon we should thank God we’ll miss the plagues.
Troy and his lieutenants had debated the purpose of the explosives inventory. Now one of their theories seemed likely.
They’re gonna blow up the levees and drown us, he said.
That’s what I figured too. Then they’ll get in your boats and pick off any survivors. Starvation and thirst will take care of anybody they miss.
Troy’s stomach fluttered. His hands shook as he mopped his brow again. Lord help us all.
Stransky leaned toward him. How’s it feel knowin you been killin the wrong folks all these years?
Troy said nothing. He could think of no adequate reply.
That night, Troy visited the Riverwalk. Patrols rode by Jackson Square, twice as many mounted guards circulating through the Quarter twice as often. I hope it helps folks sleep better. I wish I could tell em this is the first time the Temple’s been completely safe from the Troublers. He found his favorite bench and sat. The overcast sky merged with the black water, an abyss where nothing could live and no one could hear his prayers. He offered one up anyway, the same one he had said a hundred times since they captured Stransky: Please help me do right.
He could not get the blasphemous, impure thoughts about Sarah Gonzales out of his head. Father, forgive me my weakness. But forgiveness seemed as cold and dead as the starlight he could not even see. He fanned himself with his hat and waited.
Soon they materialized from the dark: Long, Ford, and Tetweiller ambled in from different directions. Boudreaux jogged up moments later, probably straight from the prison infirmary where he had been spending every free minute with Jack Hobbes. McClure and Bandit padded up from the water’s edge or, for all Troy knew, the river itself, two creatures from some other age whose comings and goings no person of aging flesh could understand. They fanned out in front of Troy, even Bandit, who sat between McClure and Tetweiller. The old lord knelt and scratched the dog’s ears.
Stransky’s got news, Troy said, keeping his voice low. The first prisoners will be here tomorrow, the day after at the latest.
Hell, Tetweiller said.
The dog yawned.
That ain’t all. They’re gonna use biologicals. Not here, but wherever they can, until their supply runs out.
Tetweiller spat. Son of a bitch.
What else? Long asked.
Stransky and me agree about what they’re gonna do in New Orleans. They’re gonna wall us in and blow the levees. Drown us like rats.
Sweet Father, Ford muttered.
Y’all been stockpilin supplies and ordnance?
Yes, sir, said Boudreaux.
We all have, said Tetweiller.
They sounded angry and nervous. Drawn faces, darting eyes, hunched postures that suggested stomachs crawling into throats. The rope they had fashioned to pull themselves out of sin’s deepest pit had knotted itself into a noose and was now draped around their throats.
Look, Troy said, we’re all scared. But we gotta keep it together. Our people are countin on us, even if they don’t know it. So are the Troublers. Ain’t no way we can convert em if they’re all dead.
McClure tittered. The child did not believe. She had seen too much blood on the streets and had turned harder than the cracked pavement on which they walked. McClure felt you could not embrace sinners when you held a loaded gun to their heads. You had to choose, the open hand or the pistol.
Hush up, Tetweiller said to her.
She’s earned the right to believe what she wants, Troy said. Willa, once the soldiers get here, I’ll need regular reports about the levees.
McClure’s voice floated out of the darkness. Sure.
The rest of you, keep on filchin. We’re gonna need as much ammo as we can get. Let’s grab tools too. Lord knows what all we’ll need. Ernie, I want a list of every place the Crusade might wire. I doubt they’ll bother with every foot of the floodwalls. Too much to guard.
Got it, said Tetweiller.
Boudreaux stepped closer. What about me?
We’re the ones workin closest to Dwyer, and he’ll be watchin, Troy said. You’re gonna watch him back. If he moves against us, we’ll cut him down. The lord of order stood and shook all their hands. I wish this had fallen to somebody else, but I couldn’t ask for a better crew. LaShanda, would you like to lead us in prayer?
See y’all later, McClure said. A stirring in the night, and she was gone.
The others bowed their heads. Troy closed his eyes out of habit.
Lord Father, Long said, we know it’s always darkest before the dawn, but sunrise seems a year away. Lead us down the path of righteousness for Your name’s sake. Let Your light guide us. Give us understanding and clarity, Father. Help us serve Your will. And if the devil drags us down and yokes us to his wagon, bury us under the mountains, Lord. We’re nothin if we ain’t your servants, and we want to be good ones. Your will be done, forever and ever. Amen.
Amen, Troy said. I love every one of you. You’ll do this city proud. Now go get some sleep. Company’s comin.
They melted into the shadows, except for Boudreaux. Neither he nor Troy spoke until the sounds of the others’ leaving had faded. The hoofbeats of another patrol grew louder, clopped by, faded.
Can we really find a way through this? Boudreaux asked.
I’m prayin every five minutes, Troy said. He listened to the guards’ passing conversations. Soon all those voices might be raised against him or stilled forever. Despite the heat, he shivered.
9
Troy sat his horse facing the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. It stretched across the water and disappeared into the horizon, two parallel trails of concrete and steel that time and weather had eroded but not crumbled. To Troy’s left, Dwyer worked his string in the saddle. To the right, Gordy Boudreaux chewed jerky and patted his horse’s neck every few minutes. Behind them, Jerold Babb sat in the two-horse wain he had driven, sweating through his robes of office, his wispy hair plastered to his head. He had drunk one canteen dry and had started on a second. He’s gonna have to relieve himself every five minutes on the way home.
Hobbes had left the infirmary, but when he tried to saddle up and join them that morning, Troy had denied him.
I can ride, Hobbes had said.
Troy patted his good shoulder. I know it. But we don’t want them stitches bustin open. Take her easy till they come out.
Hobbes had ridden home in a wagon’s shotgun seat, glaring whenever the boy Troy had conscripted to drive it tried to speak.
Now Troy pulled his hat low. The rising sun sparkled off calm water in dazzling crystal facets. A cool breeze blew over the lake, the horses’ manes fluttering. Boudreaux snuffled, hawked, and spat a wad of phlegm onto the road. Troy glanced at him. Boudreaux shook his head.
If he gets a fever, he’ll keep pushin until it burns him down or we have to shoot him too. Mostly because he’ll know we can’t afford to lose somebody else.
Dwyer slipped the string into his saddlebag and dis
mounted. Then he walked to the edge of the causeway, where he stopped and stretched, his palms flat against his lower back. He groaned as the vertebrae popped. What a sight, he said. So many of the ancients were heathens, blasphemers, and adulterers, but when they put their minds to it, they built their structures to last.
Troy knew what Dwyer meant. He had read the church’s secret history of this city and the journals of past lords. The causeway had nearly been destroyed in some of the hurricanes that often skirted the city’s edge, and once a storm called Katrina had nearly wrecked it in a matter of hours. Sometime later, when Hurricane Melvin overwhelmed the improved levees and flooded the city again, killing nearly fifty percent of the population, a quarter-mile section of the causeway had sunk into the lake. Troy had always taken those events as proof that the ancients, for all their ingenuity, learned their lessons slowly. Like the builders of Babel, so sure they could master God Himself until His mighty hand showed them their folly. After Melvin, the levees had been raised another fifteen feet and reinforced yet again, the causeway restored and buttressed. It had been spot repaired many times since, the basic structure and design never changing. In his lifetime, Troy had never even seen it damaged. It had most recently survived Hurricane Oscar, which had flooded lower-lying streets, taken off roofs, shattered windows. The levees held that day too, despite storm surges and heavy rains swelling the lake like the fat gray ticks that plagued dogs in summer.
Troy dismounted and stood beside the herald, thumbs tucked into his gun belt. What time you reckon they’ll make it? he asked.
Dwyer’s white teeth practically sparkled. I have no idea. They’re riding herd on the biggest prisoner migration in history, all those Troublers chained together at the ankles and walking in lockstep. You can imagine the delays that would result from even one child tripping over its own feet.
Troy whistled long and low. A tangle of arms and legs and heads, each Troubler landing on someone else, only to be landed upon a second later. The screams, the broken bones, the deep and hopeless sobs. It had probably happened more than once, especially to those who came from far up north. The first arrivals would be contingents from Baton Rouge and Lafayette, Shreveport and Monroe, Natchez and Jackson, which had been absorbed into the larger forces from Atlanta and Houston. Soon enough, prisoners from New York, California, Washington State, and Canada would walk the twin roads built over all that water. Thousands upon thousands of Troublers and enough chain to wrap around the globe bearing down on New Orleans.