A Broken Time

by Anna Oney

  Under the cover of the trees, they’d sit around a campfire, sipping moonshine out of a jar Fawn would swipe from Mr. Gamby’s shed, and discuss the latest gossip and which boys were showing interest in them. They’d end the night by exchanging thoughts of what their lives would be like ten years from then. Who would they marry? How many kids would they have? What would be their names?

  Those were the days, Fawn thought as she crouched behind a thicket of tall, brittle grass.

  Instead of gearing up to plunge herself into a possibly dangerous situation, she wished she could go back in time. When all she had to worry about was making it home in time for supper and the grounding or whooping she’d get for sneaking out.

  Fawn inched her way closer to the edge of the woods. She found it odd that the men guarding Stagecoach’s main entrance were Clancy’s own townsmen. At the Bogan Farm, it had been the NWA’s soldiers that were posted outside the barrier. No Humvees were parked outside either. Still, she couldn’t risk revealing herself when she had no idea of the dangers lurking inside Stagecoach’s walls.

  Stagecoach’s community looked as though it sat at the bottom of a bowl. A bowl surrounded by steep slopes. Nearing the northeast section of the barrier, Fawn caught sight of two of Clancy’s townsmen. She shuffled her way through the tall grass, keeping her bow drawn as she came to an oak tree wide enough to conceal her form. Peeking around the tree’s trunk, Fawn realized they were in the process of urinating on the hidden entryway.

  Of course, she thought, clenching her jaw. I need you guys to hurry up.

  Fawn assumed they were in their early teens. She watched as the taller of the two directed his urine toward the bottom of the shorter, scrawnier boy’s pant leg, peeing on his shoe.

  The taller boy tilted back his head and roared with laughter.

  “Hey, man!” the skinny boy protested. He yanked his foot back, attempting to shake the beaded urine from his shoe. “I’m going to smell like pee all day.”

  “I think it’s an improvement,” the taller boy joked and shrugged.

  “I’ll get you back.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the scrawny boy shoved against the taller boy’s shoulder. Chuckling, the scrawny boy ran out ahead of his friend, sprinting down the side of the barrier. The taller boy ran after him, laughing and shouting.

  “I’d like to see you try!”

  Keep going, she thought, waiting for their forms to disappear around the corner. Keep going. Keep going.

  “Boys,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

  She emerged around the tree, keeping herself low. The back gate of a horse corral near the rear entrance of the community on top of a hill stuck out to Fawn as she strode toward the passage. Coming to her knees before the pee stained wall, she wrinkled her nose.

  “Phew! That’s pungent.”

  She tugged at the bottom of the boards, praying they would give. Her heart leapt as one did, rising about fifteen inches from the ground at an angle. She poked her head through the opening, checking to see if anyone stood nearby inside. Seeing that the coast was clear, she pulled harder at the two panels on either side of the timber that had given. The planks popped and creaked as she successfully loosened them from the ground.

  There was just enough room for her to wriggle her way through. With quivers full of arrows strapped to her back, she knew she wouldn’t be able to fit. She placed them close to the outer wall, so she could fetch them after she made it inside. Keeping her bow pressed against her side, she crawled through the small opening.

  It had been roughly two years since she’d last entered Stagecoach’s walls, and that was in less dire circumstances. Instead of checking out a book from the library, she hoped to locate Davlyn, and rally troops to break Hunter loose and revolt against the NWA.

  Fawn reached her arm around the outside barrier, fetching her quivers full of arrows. Crisscrossing their straps over her chest, she took note of muffled conversations coming from around the white-trimmed, red-bricked train station far to her left. She closed the hidden passage behind her, turning her attention to the railcars parked on the iron tracks that made a circle around the station, their wheels rusted with age.

  The laughter Fawn and her siblings had shared with some of Stagecoach’s children, pretending they were train engineers, was fresh in her mind. Plastered across the train station’s walls were black-and-white photos of the establishment in its prime. Inside those railcars, they’d let their imaginations run wild, swearing to their parents later that they’d heard the clunking and screeching of the engine as it kicked into motion. That they’d witnessed the smoke spiraling from the chimney.

  Choo-choo, she recalled them chanting as kids. Choo-choo!

  Distancing herself from the train station full of childhood memories, Fawn kept herself as close to the barrier as possible. Most of the cabins the construction crew had built were single-floored, with wraparound porches. They were elevated from the ground to protect them from the occasional flood. The dwellings with more than one level were meant for the leaders of the community and their children. Clancy and Claire couldn’t have children of their own, so Clancy lent these dwellings out to the families of his second- and third-in-command. Fawn’s knowledge of Clancy’s generous nature helped subside the suspicion she’d had of him earlier.

  None of the NWA’s tents had been erected inside the community, nor were there any tire tracks or signs of their Humvees. Soldiers with buzz cuts and loaded weapons cradled in their muscular arms weren’t patrolling the streets. The only people she found herself secretly maneuvering around were Stagecoach’s own residents.

  Halting before a dying rosebush and its jutting thorns, she peeked through to the other side. Numerous vendors were selling merchandise from their separate booths — clothing, assortments of canned fruits, moonshine, goats tied to posts, chickens in cages, and baskets full of eggs. It was business as usual.

  If Davlyn had delivered the message of Amos’s death, life within these walls wouldn’t be this regular, she thought, as she darted from the cover of the rosebush to the closest house to her right.

  Still, Fawn chose not to let her guard down and rounded the corner of the house with her bow drawn. Her eyes were pulled toward Clancy’s black-and-white speckled horse tied to a post outside his two-story home. She chose to near the side of his dwelling where an awning was shrouded in dying wisteria. She passed through the tendrils, harboring rotting flowers, grateful for the cover. Shadows of the twisted vines were cast over Fawn’s body as she sprinted toward the area of Clancy and Claire’s sitting room. She knew she was bound to catch one of them resting with their feet propped up inside. Every time Fawn’s family had visited Stagecoach, that was where Clancy and Claire could always be found.

  She halted before the second window of the first floor, peering through the glass. Per usual, Clancy sat in his favorite chair, with his feet propped on a small table before him. The only thing that struck her as odd was that the chair beside him was empty.

  Clancy’s nose was buried in a stained, split-spine, hardcover copy of Cormac McCarthy’s, The Road. The stain on the cover brought her back to the five hours she’d spent reading that entire novel. She recalled being so shaken up afterward that she needed a drink. In her tipsiness, she’d accidently spilt some of Mr. Gamby’s moonshine on the cover.

  Through the window, she craned her neck to look left and right. Except for Clancy, the room was completely empty. The sliding double doors behind him were closed. The only way in or out of that room was through the window she peered through, or those doors.

  She licked her lips, contemplating her next move. Taking a deep breath, she tapped at the glass with the top limb of her bow. Clancy’s eyes shot from the beautifully mastered, heartbreaking pages of Cormac McCarthy’s finest work to meet Fawn’s pleading gaze through the window.

  Rising from his chair, Clancy placed the book on the table where his feet had been propped.

  “What in tarna
tion?”

  He opened the window without hesitation, offering his hand to help her indoors.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack,” he said, smiling as her feet came to the floor. “You could’ve used the front door, you know.” He chuckled, motioning for her to sit in Claire’s empty chair. “Doors are more practical.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, sitting down. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s fine, my dear,” he said, holding out his hand. “But you know my rule about weapons in the house. Take a load off.”

  She stared at his reaching hand, immediately coming to her feet. Dried blood was embedded in his cuticles.

  “I wasn’t sure what I’d be walking into,” she said, backing away from him. “To be honest, I still don’t.”

  Tilting his head, Clancy pursed his lips.

  “Has something happened?”

  “Davlyn . . . she’s missing. Pete sent her here to give you and Aunt Claire the news of Amos’s death.”

  “Oh,” he said, jerking back his head. “That’s a shame.”

  That’s a shame? Really?

  “Clancy,” she said, looking to the closed double doors behind him, and then to the open window, far to her left. “Where’s Aunt Claire?”

  He sighed, turning his back to her as he strolled to the doors. Fawn sprinted for the window. Her heart shot to the base of her throat. Four men stood outside the window, aiming their bows upward, in her direction. One man shook his head, drawing his arrow further back.

  Jaw and fists clenched, Fawn turned around to face Clancy as he slid open the double doors, stepping to the side. Six men filed inside, aiming automatic rifles at her chest instead of bows.

  “Drop your bow and arrows to the floor,” Clancy said as he made his way through the six men aiming their weapons. “The hatchet too.”

  Weighing the odds of her chances of survival, she asked herself the same question she had before her altercation with Tye.

  Are you ready to die today, Fawn McCord, or are there still some things you’re meant to do?

  Body trembling, Fawn swallowed her pride, doing as she was commanded.

  “Commander Asher said that if it was possible to capture you alive to do so. Roark,” Clancy said, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Fetch her for me, will you?”

  Upon Roark’s arrival by Fawn’s side, his upper lip became curled and his nose wrinkled.

  “You smell like warm piss,” he sneered, as he held Fawn’s arms behind her back.

  “Clancy,” she protested, grimacing at Roark’s grip on her wrists. “Don’t do this!”

  Clancy folded his hands before his waist, tipping his head to the side.

  “You’re a wanted woman, Fawn. Imagine how Stagecoach will be rewarded for handing you over. The Commander assured me it’d be plentiful.”

  “These people aren’t going to give you anything,” she countered, her voice unsteady. “They only mean to take.”

  Tipping his head toward the open double doors behind him, Clancy signaled for Roark to escort Fawn from the room.

  “Now, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, following them closely with the remaining five men trailing behind him. “They supplied us with these weapons and taught us how to use them.”

  “They want to control us,” she replied, stumbling along with Roark’s stride through the kitchen. “Wipe out our way of living!”

  The sound of Clancy’s leisurely footsteps became hurried with every word he and Fawn exchanged.

  “These folks,” Clancy said. “They’re here to help. And you mean to keep them from doing so. That . . . I can’t abide. Outside, Roark!” he called as they passed by the woodstove. “Take her to the pit outside.”

  No, she thought, wincing at the pressure with which Roark held back her arms. Not the pit.

  Fawn’s parents had once punished her for sneaking out by forcing her to help Clancy’s townspeople dig that cavernous pit. She remembered the weeks it had taken to reach a depth Clancy had been satisfied with and the blisters that had adorned her hands afterward. They’d constructed wooden walls within the circular crater to keep the dirt from buckling. The chamber was an inescapable dark, dank place, in which criminals of the community were held until their judgement.

  “I imagine your father will haunt me for this,” Clancy continued, as they emerged on his porch.

  “Oh, he will!” she ranted over her shoulder as she and Roark cleared the steps. “Y’all were friends!”

  She raised her eyes from the lumpy ground to the planks covering the abyss twenty feet ahead of them.

  God be with me, she silently prayed, feeling the weight of Gran’s cross around her neck. Give me the strength to make it through this, so I can be of some use to the people I love.

  Arriving before the pit, Roark tightened his grip on Fawn’s wrists, stretching the tendons of her shoulders. Reaching Fawn’s side, Clancy firmly patted her back.

  “Now, Boss?” Roark asked, bringing Fawn closer to the edge of darkness.

  Swallowing, Fawn cut her eyes downward to the square opening of the haunting pit.

  I don’t remember it being this deep.

  Clancy held up his hand, telling Roark to hold up.

  “I’m not going to lie,” he said, chuckling lightly. “That fall’s going to hurt something awful. I can’t get what you said back in the house out of my head.”

  “Really,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes at him. “What’s that?”

  “You said these people mean to ‘wipe out our way of living,’” he said, resting his hand at the middle of her back. “My question to you is, what’s so great about our way of living?”

  “Clancy—” Fawn began, devoid of hope.

  “We’ve had eyes on you since you came within five miles of the community,” he interrupted, with a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “We have Juniper.”

  A shade was cast over Clancy’s eyes as he gave Fawn a light shove, dispatching her into the depths of the dark cavern.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  For six days and nights, Hunter was strapped naked to a post the NWA had erected in the center of the community. By the end of the second day, more soldiers had arrived with white plastic suits wedged beneath their armpits. Hunter observed the soldiers slipping the suits on over their camouflaged uniforms. It reminded him of being fitted for clothes at Stagecoach. The soldiers were divided into pairs, taking turns checking over their partner’s suit, making sure there weren’t any nicks or holes.

  By sunset of the fifth day, one of his neighbors had snuck past the guards to bring him water. He’d been so out of it, he couldn’t remember who it was, or even if it was a man or a woman. Sun blisters had formed on his cheeks and forehead. His entire body was sunburned except for a section of his slashed back that was kept pressed against the post. During the daytime, Hunter looked forward to nightfall. The beaming, rounded beast in the sky could no longer get satisfaction from turning his skin to embers.

  On the sixth night, the full moon was positioned high above him, dousing the area in a dim, blue-grayish light. Five guards encircled him and were stationed about thirty steps from the post. With his chin slumped upon his chest, he was trying to fall asleep when the sound of one of the guards hocking a mixture of mucus and spit pried his eyes open. He blinked rapidly at the vison of a large, spotted, furred animal sitting before him. He widened his eyes, and then narrowed them, adjusting his hazy sight to the impossible image of a bobcat, tilting its head at his naked form on display.

  “Look,” a man’s voice said as the bobcat came to stand on all four of its paws. “I owe your grandfather for pulling my wife from the creek all those years ago.”

  “Wha—” Hunter began, realizing the voice had come from the bobcat.

  The bobcat held up one paw, shaking its head.

  “Don’t speak, just listen. I usually don’t show my true form outside the veil. But,” he said, pausing as he came within five inches of Hunter. “
I need thumbs to set you free.”

  The bobcat’s tail brushed against Hunter’s bare thigh as he walked around Hunter’s back. A soft, shwoop came from behind Hunter, transforming his skin into gooseflesh. The tug and pull at the ropes cutting off circulation to his hands and feet sent a tingling charge throughout his body. That thrill turned into panic as he felt himself tipping over as he was released.

  A tall man with dirty blond hair, dimples, and broad shoulders caught Hunter before he hit the ground. The man hooked Hunter’s arm over the back of his neck and grasped Hunter’s side.

  “Fawn calls me Bob, but my given name is Tom. Being this close to a naked man makes me uncomfortable,” he said, chuckling nervously. “But let’s get you away from this post.”

  The bottom of Hunter’s feet stung as they took their first step forward. He looked up from the ground, his squinting eyes switching from each of the five stilled soldiers’ backs that surrounded them.

  “Wha-what about the guards?” Hunter asked, meeting Tom’s blue-eyed gaze.

  “I put them in time-out,” he replied, smiling as he lifted Hunter from the ground. “Behind the veil, I’m known as Borrowed Time. They’ll stay that way until the timer goes off.”

  “Timer?”

  “To make things fair for you mortals,” Tom replied, quickening his pace. “Timers are set to limit our involvement in everyone’s destinies.”

  “Even if it’s to get away from the bad guys?” Hunter asked, aghast.

  “They’re Father’s children, too,” he replied, as they passed between Dwight and Brody, who were frozen in conversation. “I’ve learned that He loves all of you the same, even those who continue letting Him down.”

  They crept past two cabins and maneuvered around a third, where a small boy of six years old stood frozen as he peed off the edge of his family’s porch. Arriving at the barn’s entrance, where Hunter’s grandfather’s initials were seared into the archway, Tom decided to shuffle along the east side.