The Last Legend

by Ernie Lindsey

  “Closer than you think.” Ellery’s bobbling, shaky head turns in my direction. She smiles a toothless smile and lifts a fragile arm, her hand flapping at the end of it like one of the fish we catch in the nearby river.

  What’s she talking about? I wonder. Me? Is she trying to distract them? I can’t imagine why. It serves no purpose. I have no special abilities. I can’t see the future. I can’t run faster than a deer. I can’t climb trees like a squirrel or jump forty feet across the river. The stories we’ve been told about the Kinders have mentioned amazing things—foresight, incredible physical feats. Speed and agility. Regeneration. And up until today, I had thought immortality was one of them. But if what Ellery says is true, then maybe those stories were nothing more than… stories.

  Stories made up to give children hope and something to dream about. A chance to pretend that they have more than what we’re given by nature and circumstance.

  When I was little, not so long ago, I dreamed of becoming a Kinder. I wanted to do what they did—seeing the future, running, jumping, climbing, flying. I wanted to live forever. But Grandfather said no, that back in the Olden Days, Kinders were used for war, that they weren’t nice like the Elders claimed when they sat around our campfires and shared what they thought they knew.

  I don’t have any special abilities. Not like them. I can shoot a hopping, sprinting rabbit with my slingshot from fifty feet away, but that’s it. The ability to aim well, to hunt, to anticipate my prey’s next move, that comes with years of practice. It’s not a skill that was given to me by someone the Elders called a “scientist.” I’m not entirely sure what that word even means, or what a scientist did before the world ended. They only told us what their Elders had told them.

  Ellery knows this. Ellery knows I’m not like her.

  And she knows that Finn and I aren’t going anywhere. We’re incapable of doing anything against this group of men. Ellery is blind, but she sees everything, and she has to know that we’re outnumbered, that it’s not like she says.

  Doesn’t she?

  This is our end, not theirs.

  The two large soldiers creep up behind Ellery, inching closer, their arms out, ready to grab her, take her prisoner. And then what? What will they do with, or to, the last remaining Kinder?

  If she’s not immortal like the Elders claimed, does she feel pain?

  My heart aches for the old woman as the two large soldiers advance toward her, approaching slowly, cautiously. What have they been told? What stories do they know that we don’t?

  She points at me again, more insistently, hand shaking, toothless smile opening wider. She says, “And a girl shall lead them.”

  Captain Tanner glances at me over his shoulder and scoffs. “Her? Her? Ridiculous. And here I thought you had the gift, old woman.”

  10

  The two large soldiers warily advance. When they’re within a couple feet of Ellery, Captain Tanner says, “Proceed, gentlemen.”

  They hesitate.

  “I said proceed.”

  One looks at the other, and they both shrug their shoulders, silently agreeing.

  They lunge.

  Ellery moves like I’ve never seen her move before. She’s fast, nimble, dodging to the side. It reminds me of the elusive chickens we keep in the community pen. You reach, try to grab, and then they’re gone.

  There one second and then not.

  The soldiers stumble and fall face first into the mud and puddles of rainwater.

  Ellery cackles with laughter as they climb to their feet and charge at her once more.

  Again she skips to the side, tips her head back, and giggles like a little girl.

  It’s fun for her, this game that’s similar to Catch the Rabbit.

  Captain Tanner shouts at the soldiers, tells them to stop disgracing the northern army and to capture the old woman. Again and again they try. They fail.

  The rest of the infantrymen around us begin chuckling, unable to control themselves, and then they go stone-faced silent when Captain Tanner orders them to shut up.

  I don’t. I keep laughing. He can’t order me to stop.

  It’s hard to imagine laughing in a situation like this: captured, so close to my own death, with so many of my friends and their families lying dead around me. But it’s a measure of relief—a way to let go of all that I’m holding inside. It’s so unbelievably horrible that I have to laugh, because if I break down, if I give up, it’ll definitely be the end. The laughter gives me hope.

  Captain Tanner shouts, “The rest of you, move in! Get her!”

  I count the blackcoats. There are fifteen of them creating a circle around Ellery, slowly closing it as she ducks and dodges and dances around the first two. Seconds later, they’re surrounding her, mere feet away. She doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I imagine her bending at the knees and jumping, flying up into the sky, bringing at least one more of the Elders’ stories to life.

  It doesn’t happen.

  They grab her, restrain her, hold her still. She doesn’t fight back.

  My laughter slips away.

  Why doesn’t she fight back? I want her to fight back. I want all of it to be true. I want her to sling them together, beat them, fight her way out and escape. I want her to run from our encampment and be free.

  I struggle against the soldier holding me, wiggling and squirming, trying to get loose from his strong arms. “Stop!” I scream.

  Hawkins steps toward the group. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  Now he’s trying to help. Now he’s realized that he made a mistake.

  And now I hate him even more. It’s too late to make up for what he’s done.

  Captain Tanner shouts for Hawkins to remain where he is, then marches over to the circle and forces his way inside. Four soldiers hold her, and I don’t know why it takes so many. She’s not trying to get away. She’s standing still and smiling at me.

  Captain Tanner slaps Ellery’s face and then roughly grabs her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. “I was hoping this would go a bit differently. What’s your name?”

  She says nothing.

  He repeats, “What’s your name?”

  “There’s power in a name,” Ellery says.

  He squeezes harder, shakes her head back and forth. “Tell me!”

  “It’s not mine you’ll have to worry about. If you make it out of here alive, and you will, for now, there’s another name you’ll remember.”

  “Is that so?” Captain Tanner grins and lets go of Ellery’s face. Grabbing a handful of hair, he yanks her head sideways, hard, trying to hurt her. “And what name is that, you decaying old hag?”

  “Caroline,” is all she says.

  Before I have time to question what she means, a loud pop of gunfire echoes throughout the valley. The four soldiers holding Ellery let go, and she drops to the ground, holding her chest. Behind her hands, I can see red seeping into her saturated dress. She takes one breath, then another, and collapses.

  Brandon’s gone. Grandfather’s gone. Ellery’s gone.

  When the Elders talked about how things were before the world ended, they never mentioned how it felt when it did, so long ago.

  Now I know. It’s a deep, dark aching that starts in your chest and slithers down into your stomach, your bowels. It crawls into your legs and arms, your throat and your head. You feel empty, but you feel nothing.

  This is what it’s like.

  This is how it feels when your world ends.

  Captain Tanner pivots, clicks his heels together, and marches in my direction.

  I hear Finn’s voice. I’ve been so focused on everything else, I’d forgotten that he was beside me. “What did she mean?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I wish I did, but her reasoning escapes me. Grandfather always said I had strength—and back in the cabin, before he passed, he said she gave it to me for a reason—but it makes no sense. What strength? She who? I’m no stronger than anyone else I know. I can’t re
call a moment in my life where someone gave me anything special. We always salvaged what we needed, or traded, or shared.

  I’ve been given nothing. Everything has been taken away.

  “Are you sure?” Finn says.

  I look at him, nodding. I am. I’m sure. I’m not special.

  The soldier holding me says, “Shut up,” and squeezes harder.

  Captain Tanner prances up to the two of us. He’s happy about what he’s done. He’s murdered the last Kinder. This fact will certainly get him a promotion in rank. People will tell stories about him. People will talk about the man who accomplished the undoable, and all it took was a bullet. The last, great, supposedly immortal Kinder eliminated with a single shot. He probably thinks he’ll be a legend.

  He says, “Well, well, well, Miss Caroline. That was rather anticlimactic, wasn’t it? We had reports that the last one was hiding here, and I assumed that with her around, our task would have been significantly harder.”

  I try to spit in his face, but my mouth is dry, and I do nothing more than blow flecks of spittle at him that get lost in the rain.

  “Typical, but expected. I can’t blame you—I’ve been in your situation before, you see—but that was very unladylike.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  “She seemed to have a keen interest in you, my dear. You. A child. What was it she said? ‘And a girl shall lead them.’ If she meant leading your people to their demise, then I suppose she was right.” Captain Tanner looks around at all of the members of my encampment on the ground, some face down, some staring at the sky. “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “Slaves.” Even the word tastes dirty on my tongue.

  “Bright girl. Either you have a gift you don’t know about, or someone told you,” he says, studying Finn. “But it doesn’t matter. Quite a waste, because all of these cold bodies would’ve served well as workers. My men are hungry for blood though, so I allowed them this much.”

  “You’re a monster.”

  “I’m a teacher, actually. History. Girls and boys your age. They don’t want to learn. They’re too interested in kissing each other and fighting about who’s pretty and who’s not. The one thing I’d love for them to learn is that history repeats itself. Are you familiar with the Bible, Miss Caroline?”

  I stare at him, unmoving. I’m familiar with it, but not much. Grandfather had one, once, but he traded it when I was younger for a pair of pants when I outgrew my old ones.

  “There’s a passage in the Bible that says, ‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’ Couldn’t be further from the truth, honestly. The repetition of history shows that the weak bend to the strong, and I can assure you, your PRV will bow at our feet, regardless of what that old woman thought about you. She was right about one thing and wrong about another: we’ve brought the end with us, but tomorrow I won’t remember your name or that you even existed. Private Conners, Private Ogden, help them find out whether or not the Bible tells the truth.”

  Captain Tanner whirls and commands his soldiers to raid our homes, to take whatever they can find that’s usable, and when they’re finished with that, they’re to head into the forest. He adds, “Track down the runners and capture them alive. Do not waste any more good workers.”

  Finn and I are yanked around and paraded through The Center. I don’t know where they’re taking us or why they don’t simply get it over with right here.

  We only make it thirty yards before I hear something whistling through the air.

  It’s the hiss of flying arrows.

  Conners and Ogden are hit. They yelp and grunt in pain.

  They fall and let go. We’re free.

  I recognize the gray shafts and orange feathers of the arrows protruding from our captors. They’re used for hunting. The orange makes them easier to find if a shot sails wide in the middle of the forest. I’ve seen them before, caught in bushes, poking out from underneath a bed of leaves, and I know who uses them.

  Republicons.

  I hear the hiss of more arrows speeding through the air, flying by our heads. I grab Finn’s arm and pull him down with me, ducking under the assault. All around us, DAV soldiers are madly firing into the surrounding forest. They don’t know what they’re aiming at, they can’t see anything, and I can’t either. The arrows seem to appear from nowhere and everywhere at once. They find their marks. Soldiers trip and fall, flailing their arms, screaming. Some shoot wildly into the sky on their way down.

  Hawkins gets hit and drops. Clutching his shoulder, holding the base of the arrow that penetrated deeply into it, he whimpers, and I feel no compassion.

  One by one, the DAV soldiers are eliminated.

  All but Captain Tanner, who runs like a coward, bent low, dodging the incoming volley, running in a crazy, angular pattern. He disappears between two shacks, and for a moment, I consider going after him, but he’s still armed, and now that I’m safe, I don’t want to risk my life to end his. Not now. If this war continues, and I know it will, I’ll find him one day. My revenge can wait.

  The arrows stop. I cautiously stand up, and Finn follows me. He’s holding his hands over his head as if he’s expecting more to come flying at us, as if he thinks the soft flesh of his hands will stop an arrowhead.

  Republicons rescued us, and the idea is such an incomprehensible one that I’m having difficulty accepting it. They’re selfish, evil, ruthless, and the fact that they risked themselves to save two children leaves me dumbfounded.

  I stand by Finn’s side, surveying the hills around our encampment, trying to spot them among the trees. I call out, “Where are you?” and get no response.

  We wait. Maybe a minute, maybe two.

  I’m not sure of their intent. I don’t want to run because I don’t know where to run. Any direction could lead to hidden raiders.

  When a Republicon man walks out of the woods, Finn takes my arm and leads me backward. “Who are they?” he asks, and I forget that he doesn’t know about them, not unless he’s encountered these vicious vagrants while he’s been sneaking through our woods. Maybe he’s seen them, but he doesn’t know how dangerous they are.

  “Republicons,” I whisper. “Thieves, raiders… bad people.”

  “Great. First the soldiers and now these guys.”

  The Republicon walking toward us is the biggest man I’ve ever seen. Taller than Grandfather and heavier than Hawkins. Not fat. Massive. He’s wearing ragged, dirty clothes. His long, dark hair is pulled back to the base of his skull and tied there. The beard clinging to his face is as big as a bush and sprinkled with gray. He has intense blue eyes, but they seem kind. Concerned.

  He’s holding a bow in one hand and lifts the other, palm down, patting the air. “I won’t hurt you,” he says.

  I don’t want to believe him.

  “Is that all of them?” he asks.

  I tell him yes and hold my ground. When he’s close, maybe ten feet away, I tell him to stop and stay where he is, and surprisingly, he listens. A breeze rushes past us, and I smell his unwashed stench, a mixture of old sweat and dirt.

  “I know you,” he says. “I’ve seen you in the woods before.”

  “You have?”

  “You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

  “But you’re Republicons,” I say. “Why’d you save us?”

  He looks around at the empty shacks and all the fallen members of our encampment. He shakes his head and sadly says, “This land… it’s our home, too.”

  11

  It takes me a moment to notice the other Republicons slinking out of the forest. They’re as filthy as the man in front of me. There are holes in their clothes and the rips in their packs are sewn together with thick twine. What used to be white faces are now brown with mud, and I can’t help but wonder why they don’t bother washing down at the river like we used to do every other week.

  Then it occurs to me that they probably don’t clean themselves on purpose. Better cover in the woods. Better to hide th
eir scent when they’re hunting prey.

  I count six men and four women, in a range of ages, shapes, and sizes. Two of the men are nearly as large as the one in front of me, and another is as thin as a sapling. Three of the women are close to Mother’s age when she left, and the fourth is more of a girl, closer to me in her years.

  Finn puts his hand on my lower back and taps me with a finger in the same repetitive pattern. He’s trying to tell me something.

  Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. Tap, tap, tap.

  There’s a small voice inside my head, quieter than my own thoughts, saying, “Should we run?” Tap, tap, tap. “Should we run?” It gets louder, loud enough for me to recognize that it’s Finn’s voice that I’m hearing. I quickly look over at him, and he’s focused on the group of people congregating behind the man in front of us. His lips aren’t moving.

  Tap, tap, tap. “Should we run?”

  What’s happening? Am I hearing his thoughts?

  “No, we shouldn’t,” I say out loud. “Now stop it.”

  Finn whips his head around. “You heard me?”

  “Yeah… maybe… Just stop.”

  The giant Republicon in front of us angles his head. “What’re you up to?”

  I try to distract him. “Nothing. What’s your name?”

  Maybe I’m trying to distract myself, too. I heard Finn’s voice inside my head. I know I did. Something like that has never happened to me before, and right now, it’s too strange to think about.

  “James,” the giant says, and it reminds me of a story the Elders told about a little boy and a humongous peach. I never believed that one. “What’s yours?”

  “Caroline. And this is Finn.”

  “Caroline. Pretty name. That’s the same as my—”

  He pauses mid-sentence and cocks an ear. The others behind him turn around, focusing their eyes northward. I look past them, trying to see what caught their attention.

  “Drums,” James says, and then I hear them, too.

  Softer than when I heard them in the woods, but they’re closer than they were before, so close that we can hear them in the encampment.