Book Read Free

Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

Page 55

by Matthew Taylor


  Victoria was ordered to guard Bambi and Oscar, Aunt Honey and children inside, with the engines running until each guard team called in with an “all clear and secure.”

  As the confirmations rolled in, Victoria rolled her head left and right to release the aching tension from her shoulders and checked in on Penny. She then climbed into Oscar and followed her mother and the others to the small plaza of the old community, where they circled up.

  Like a wagon train, she thought, though all the old movies she had seen seemed to end with the wagons in flames.

  Victoria then accompanied her mother to their hidden cache. Inside the large shed, overgrown with vines, they found weapons, food, boxes of clothes, light body armor, fuel drums, and sleeping mats, as well as buckets of insect and rodent repellent. She was now convinced that if they were going to be safe anywhere outside the township it would be here, at least for a while.

  “Alright then,” Nessa announced. “Let’s move the gear and finish setting camp. Two patrols at all times. Two-hour shifts. The rest can eat and get some rest.

  “Vic,” Uncle Joshua said, “you’re on first watch. Please pair up with Grimm.”

  Victoria was surprised to hear from her Uncle Joshua, who had been huddled over his wrist-plat, feverishly typing a message. It had struck her as odd, given the lack of comms, but there were so many other things going on, she paid it no mind.

  I guess he’s back, she thought.

  Putting her on shift struck her as patently unfair, given everything she had been through that day, but then realized that once she was done, she could sleep the rest of the night undisturbed. Despite the ebb and flow of emotions, she was exhausted and desperate for sleep.

  Victoria and Grimm set off on their walk with the camp melancholy and still. The adults were already congregating around a small heater in the center of the wagon circle, deliberating the best way forward. Despite everything at stake with the end result, she felt no need to participate, and she was thankful that she didn’t have to listen to grown-ups prattle on about the nuances of this direction or that.

  “What do you think they’ll wanna do?” Grimm asked.

  It almost felt wrong to break the silence.

  “Well,” she said after a pause, “no one’ll wanna stay in this ghost town for long.”

  Not with unbridled violence sweeping the whole region and so few supplies.

  “They’ll prob’ly wanna hunker a couple days. Hope to hear from Shay or my uncle—or anyone. Then make a call on whether to go back or move on.”

  “Go back?” Grimm scoffed. “How could we possibly go back—even if we left to help them fight right now—”

  Victoria understood his anger, but she was too tired to get revved up. “We left them in their hour of need,” she accented. “Like deserters.”

  Grimm was disarmed by her agreement.

  “Maybe—” he started. “Well, I mean, Shay designed those defenses. If they hold, we could end up heroes. We’d have to make your mom’s story about the church hold up.”

  That’s a fool’s hope, she thought.

  “More likely, they’ll decide based on whatever they think Shay will do. Or what they think he wants them to do, if that makes sense. He’s a businessman with a reputation—and a payment due to him. But he might expect us to start out and follow his rendezvous points eastward until we get comms or find him. Hard to say. He might want us to just stay put until he gets back.”

  Grimm knew as well as she did that Shay was the life line for both their families, but that when their dependence on the scruffy man from the badlands crystalized for her—the fluke accident in her family’s woeful story of dispersion and convergence. And how little she actually knew about him. Of course, she liked him. Everyone did. She never got the sense that he was above the collective will. In fact, to her benefit, she figured he’d likely suck it up and do almost anything to be close to her mother. He treated her mom the way lovers did on the movie screen shows from the High Times. He treated her the way her father only did when he wanted forgiveness for his binging.

  Still, she found herself wishing that she had more to base her trust on. How is it that he never spoke of being married? Having kids? How did he survive all these years in the Wilds on his own? How many people had he seen die, or maybe even killed himself?

  Lots of people bottled up their losses, but whatever his background was, she hoped at least her aunt, uncles, and mother knew his story—and approved. If anyone was going to be suspicious, it would be her mom, and she had overcome whatever misgivings she must have had. Though her mother could well be blinded by being treated with a modicum of kindness. Her Aunt Honey trusted no strangers, and for all her crazy outbursts, she accepted Shay as if he were family. Paul, Joshua, and even Uncle Christian had likewise come to trust Shay.

  Whatever lingering unease she felt, Victoria was instinctively confident that if the shit hit the fan—as it just did—Shay would find a way to get her and her mother to safety.

  In any case, to her there were no good choices, and her mother and Uncle Joshua would decide anyway. As she became conscious that Grimm was still talking—presumably lamenting being ripped from the township—she found herself hoping the Lockhearts didn’t split off. This strange boy, an erstwhile cast-off of her cousin’s affection—was becoming needed adhesive for her fraying sense of security. She then decided that Penny would have to stay with her as well.

  Victoria figured her mother would want to set out to find Shay and Uncle Christian. Despite the hell they would have to go through to accomplish that, it was their best chance over the long term. Nessa would ultimately hold sway over Joshua and the other families. Honey was too unstable to get a vote, and Brady Saussa would have no choice but to go wherever they went.

  Victoria and Grimm returned from their rounds to find the discussion wrapping up. Harry Lockheart was making a last pitch at Sasha Beacon, who was still surprisingly undecided.

  “‘Course, you can stay here, if you wanna. But Sherman’s project runs out in just a coupl’a weeks. Then we was prob’ly gonna pack out for Harrisburg anyhow, and that’s where Shay is now. I reckon he knows we’d leave, and he’d want us to leave. He’ll either wait for us in Harrisburg or jump along the rendezvous points until we meet up.”

  Victoria shot a “told you so” look at Grimm, who acknowledged that he was duly impressed.

  And that was it. Sasha Beacon capitulated, and the group agreed to stay together. They would load up and break camp the next morning, and start the trek to Harrisburg, stopping at each of Shay’s secret caches along the way. They had to assume—or at least hope—the negotiations with the Baumgartens were successful and they could make a new start there.

  “So where do we go next?” Victoria chimed in, hoping to close deliberations and identify their destination before she collapsed from exhaustion. Her mother brought up the map Shay had mindfully stored in the cache.

  “This place here is next on the way.”

  Victoria only vaguely remembered the lecture for this route. “These four houses’re in pretty good shape,” Shay had said. “A few raiders and pirates come up this way from time to time, tryin’ to avoid attention. But not much, and they don’t stay long.”

  “It’ll be a long, hard trip,” Sasha volunteered.

  No doubt about that, Victoria gulped. But she had what she needed, so she gave Grimm’s arm a farewell squeeze and made her way to the thin plasti-foam mattress awaiting her inside Oscar’s hull.

  Inside the truck’s dark cargo hold, faintly illuminated by Aunt Honey’s reading light and Uncle Joshua’s wrist-plat, Victoria nestled between Penny and Tim.

  What the fuck is he working on, she wondered, staring at Uncle Joshua, who was again frenetically typing.

  She drew a deep breath and tried to make peace with the next headlong charge into the Wilds. Troy, and all the benefits of the Track, were gone forever—even if the township survived the battle. She prayed they’d find Shay, new work, and
maybe a township that would take them in.

  She held up her arm in the darkness and glanced at her wrist-plat to see the time, though she knew it was late and she wouldn’t get nearly enough sleep before the camp started stirring before dawn. She listened quietly to the adults whispering to each other over a small snack of drought-oat cereal and biotein-flavored fruit they’d found in the cache. The tarps they had strung between the trucks flapped in the wind.

  She remembered how every morning in the Wilds was a surprise. The sun rising over the cracked and potted highways. The urchins emerging, just a few at a time as the perils of darkness receded, and filing toward whatever promising mirage had appeared in their heads. Refugees, migrant workers, merchants, mercenaries, criminals. Men, women, children, families. Feral dogs that hadn’t yet been caught for a meal. The crowds, thick at the markets at the highway intersections, and the predators the herd attracted would lying in wait for those straying too far ahead or falling too far behind.

  I guess I won’t see too much of that this time as people stay hunkered down ‘till this nightmare passes.

  Her mind oscillated in and out of sleep, and she could almost hear the din of travelers on the road. The clattering rickshaws, the clanking metal bric-a-brac on rickety carts, the squeaking rusty bicycles, and the sputtering motor-scooters. She could hardly believe she would once again be in the stream of wanderers.

  Hope for the best; prepare for the worst.

  The tarps flapped. Her cousin Tim and Penny breathed softly on either side of her. The whispers of the adults became almost imperceptible, until she couldn’t tell if anyone was still there. Her head swam, and sleep took her.

  Chapter 50: An Appeal

  (Joshua Goldbloom)

  Joshua Goldbloom laced his fingers and stretched his arms as he gave one last read of his note to the Goodwell family. His heart raced as his determination battled with fear and uncertainty. He was compelled to send it, though he was unsure if it would ever arrive—or if it did, what the response would be.

  The Ellies’ll kill me if they get ahold of it, he pined. Or lock me away in a hole forever. He pushed back the idea that the Ellies would also likely torture or kill those he loved. The Goodwells would be first, just for being the intended recipients. His brother Christian too, and his sister Nessa, and their wives and children. It isn’t enough of a deterrent to punish the criminal, he knew, feeling anger fuel his righteousness. They take everything and everyone you love to maintain control. But this is God’s Will. He glanced around the dark belly of Oscar to ensure no one was watching and glued his eyes again to his wrist-plat’s screen.

  Dearest Friends—my spiritual family, tragically estranged.

  Since our parting, too much has happened to cover here. Much will likely go unsaid forever, even if—as I pray—we one day reconcile and re-unify. I will not belabor the causes of our schism, but the embers of fury have ignited the kindling of despair, and we may all be consumed in the conflagration.

  I have been blessed in this life, despite its many sorrows, torments, and injustices. I have been blessed with loving kin, with whom I am grateful to have spent the past many months. I have been blessed too, with the years I spent with you all, sharing the word of the Lord with the afflicted, the dispossessed, the meek, and the downtrodden. The light we have brought to the darkness led many wayward souls to spiritual sanctuary, and we should all rejoice in following the calling of God.

  But whatever our accomplishments in spreading His Word, we have strayed—all of us—and we are now complicit in crimes against God and Nature that currently engulf the remnants of our civilization. I am convinced there will be no place in God’s heart for the people allied with tyranny and the defilement and degradation of His wondrous creations. This very day, we watch the killing, the burning of cities, and murder of the innocent and vulnerable—all driven by greed, hatred, callousness, intolerance, and scarcity. Scarcity of food and clean water. Scarcity of shelter, comfort, and freedom. Scarcity of humanity—and of any appreciation for humanity’s place among the plants and animals that He once delivered to share the earth with us.

  These things you will recall hearing me lament over the years we spent together. I do not send this to you to recapitulate a false idealism. I send this to you as a call to action.

  The apocalypse is neigh, and we must decide for once and forever if we will truly be God’s servants. His Apostles. His Vanguard. The time of complicity has ended. The time for passive co-existence and turning a blind eye has ended.

  The time for revolution has come.

  From this orgy of bloodletting—the inevitable consequence of centuries of pillage—will be born a new world. It should be us—it must be us, together—heralding its arrival. It must be us using this horrendous disaster to finally bring the Kingdom of God to the earth.

  I cannot say if or when this message will reach you. I will nevertheless seek to find you, regardless of the peril.

  May you be blessed and protected by the Lord until I see you again.

  Joshua Goldbloom.

  He would never entrust such subversion to OmniComms or the MediaStream. He used the few technical tricks he had learned from Alias Goodwell over the years to tunnel into the dark web, find an encrypted messaging app, and with a deep breath, clicked Send.

  You are in the hands of God now, he reassured himself. He turned off his wrist-plat and laid down in a vain effort to sleep.

  Chapter 51: Breaking Point

  (Alias Goodwell)

  Alias Goodwell nearly jumped from his skin at the sound of Buzz Nixon’s voice from behind him. “Oh, sorry,” Buzz answered sheepishly. “I’ll just be right over here if you need anything else.” He pointed to a dug-out, lined with sandbags, a small solar oven steaming in the center heating some meager stew in a battered can. “There’s clean water in your tent, and a chamber pot. I’ll be on guard all night, so you’ll be safe.”

  “Thank you Buzz,” Minister Goodwell answered gently, reaching out to pat the young man on his shoulder. Buzz was visibly ecstatic. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “0-eight-hundred departure, Sir,” Buzz reminded. “I can wake you at 0-seven-thirty, if that’ll work for you.”

  “Seven-thirty would be great,” the minister affirmed with a kind smile. And with a calming ‘good night,’ Minister Goodwell was off, treading up the hill. Alias shook Buzz’s hand and followed his father.

  Halfway up the narrow trail to their tent, Alias’ father stopped and stared intently at his wrist-plat. He drew a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and turned around to face the glowing velvety smoke in the valley below. Alias caught up and joined his father in taking in the sight. His father’s wrist-plat was still aglow, and while Alias could tell it was a message, he couldn’t make out the words before his father squirrel away the wrist-plat. His father drew another deep breath and wiped a tear from his cheek.

  Minister Goodwell then gave a curious glance at Buzz Nixon, who had settled down at the base of the hill, sitting on a small portable stool, bundled in blankets, helmet on, rifle at his side. Minister Goodwell’s expression then went vacant, and he took an almost unconscious step toward an attack vehicle parked between the two yurts—Calden’s vehicle, Alias reckoned. Alias paused in confusion as his father leaned into the truck’s cab.

  “Remote fob ignition,” Minister Goodwell mumbled. Alias stood silently in his tracks, trying to figure out if his father had lost it completely. Minister Goodwell then proceeded onward, without a word, to their yurt.

  Inside, Minister Goodwell went straight to a small pile of gear and rummaged through a duffle bag, removing a small bottle and a first aid kit from the M.A.S.H. Alias watched in confusion as his father padded past him and quietly out the yurt’s screen door.

  Alias, exhausted but perplexed and curious, strained to see through a window to watch his father skulk into the yurt next door. Minister Goodwell’s silhouette leaned over one of the cots, tipped the bottle onto a fistful of bandag
es, and put it over the sleeping man’s face. Minster Goodwell then took a syringe from his kit, drew liquid from a small bottle, and injected the sleeping man in the neck.

  Holy fucking shit, Alias thought. He paced quietly in pursuit of his father. Alias looked down at his father’s victim, a man he recognized through the darkness as Colonel Yuan Shikai.

  Alias turned in disbelief to find his father kneeled down next to a snoring man in the next cot.

  “Gil.” Minister Goodwell whispered to the sleeping man. “Gil,” he repeated, a little louder and with a nudge.

  Calden woke with a start and sat up, “What the—”

  “Gil,” Minister Goodwell whispered. “It’s me.”

  “Huh? Whah—” Calden croaked. “Goddamn it, Goodwell,” he groaned, thumping his head back down onto his pillow. He rubbed his eyes and tried to compose himself. “Forgive me for taking the Lord’s name, Minister,” he sighed.

  Obsequious little rat, Alias thought to himself.

  “That’s quite alright, Gil,” the minister replied softly. “I’m sorry to wake you. You must be desperately tired.”

  “What time is it?” Calden muttered.

  “Gil, they’ve asked me to go back to the med-tent,” Minister Goodwell lied. “Some of the men have worsened. But Buzz’s truck is having engine trouble. May we use your vehicle for a couple hours so I can tend to the men?”

  Alias stood in the shadows, befuddled.

  “Sure. Fine,” Calden sighed, draping his elbow over his eyes, as if to block out both Goodwell and consciousness.

  “Thank you. Gil, I need the ignition code,” he explained.

  “Huh? Oh, 13752,” Calden yawned. “Oh, before I forget, Colonel Shikai wants to see you tomorrow.” Alias could see Calden starting to become more lucid. “What time did you say it was?”

 

‹ Prev