Enclave

by Thomas Locke

  That was what Kevin had been hoping for. “Ready the team,” he said. “And pass me something to eat.”

  Twenty minutes later, three more trucks trundled down the highway. These were far larger than the troop carriers, and each held mountains of equipment—poles long as tree trunks, bales of wire, tools, and barrels of what Kevin assumed were nails. An entire vehicle was filled with sheets of sawn board. Following them was another troop carrier.

  They watched as Hollis redistributed the troops from the stricken vehicle. Kevin noticed Pablo’s expression had become very grave. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know where they’re headed,” Pablo replied. “But I’m certain of their purpose.”

  Kevin watched as Hollis stomped to the front vehicle, called to the others, waved his arm, and slipped into the front passenger seat. The convoy drove slowly away, leaving the lone truck behind.

  “They’re building an internment camp,” Pablo said. “To corral the adepts those Washington suits identify. The same duty I ran from.”

  Kevin remained where he was as the convoy rumbled into the distance. Something this large had been planned out well in advance. But he had to figure the timing had been accelerated. The only other explanation for how this move followed so closely on Pablo’s escape was coincidence. Sheriff Ferguson had always said coincidence was just a threat in disguise.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Forrest sidling up and handing over a canteen and sack of dried fruit. Kevin ate a handful and asked, “Anything coming our way?”

  Forrest lifted his head as if sniffing the wind. “All clear.”

  Kevin remained where he was, thinking while he ate.

  Pablo said, “Leg better?”

  “Much.” He took one more handful, then passed back the sack. “We have to assume they’ll form a blockade this side of Greenville. Maybe two. One on the main highway, the other on the Refugee Trail.”

  “What do we do?”

  Kevin flattened the ground between them and began to draw. “We’re here, south by west of Charlotte. Greenville is farther in the same direction. From there, it’s a straight line southwest to Atlanta. All this stretch between here and the Atlanta boundary is heavily patrolled.”

  Pablo said, “We need to pick up supplies. We have enough for one more good meal. Two if we ration.”

  Carla was near enough to hear. She added, “The little ones need something warm to eat.”

  “We all do,” Pablo said. “It’s been a hard few days.”

  And bound to get harder still, Kevin suspected, but saw no need to say it aloud. “Can your team stifle communications like they do engines and lights?”

  “Our team,” Forrest said. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Absolutely,” Pablo said. “But they need a specific target.”

  Kevin rose slowly, testing his leg. He glanced down at the team, all of whom were watching him now. All but Doris, who remained conked out beneath the oak tree. “Time to move.”

  The road took hold and swept them south.

  That was how it seemed to Kevin. Within the first hour of them loading into the militia truck, the road felt like the destination they had been aiming for all along. They avoided the main Greenville–Atlanta highway and instead aimed almost straight south. The route Kevin took was little more than a rutted track, a shadowy reminder of what once had been a grand thoroughfare. Trees and stubborn weeds were eating into the dual ribbons from both sides. They passed two farm wagons, whose passengers eyed them with open-mouthed astonishment. As though their presence was so absurd, the truck and its passengers had to be a mirage. Otherwise the highway and the day was theirs.

  Following the Great Crash and the sickness that followed, any number of cities had simply vanished. Their names became faint reminders of all that had been lost. Kevin had spent hours poring over old maps, trying to piece together an image of the world that had once been America. Forgotten places called to him, like Spartanburg and Lexington and Augusta. Sheriff Ferguson shared his passion, but for different reasons. Gus saw himself as bound together with other like-minded lawmen who refused to give in to the bad ways. Rule of law was a favorite saying of his. All laws must be applied equally to all members of the population. Wealth and political position change nothing as far as the law is concerned. Gus repeated the words like a chant, embedding them deep in Kevin’s young mind. Rule of law.

  The regions east of Atlanta were lawless terrain now. Some farming communities still held stubbornly to land that had been in their families for centuries. They paid levies to clans who fought and marauded at will. Which was why the central government in Washington made no complaint about Atlanta’s land grab. At least the city’s expansion brought the region into a semblance of order. Gus had spoken of such actions with the contempt and hatred of a man who took such lawlessness as a personal affront.

  Kevin’s plan was to circle east of the Refugee Trail, then rejoin it south of the Atlanta boundary. The problem was, their truck was new, and thus a tempting target for bandits who controlled the highway. Which was why Pablo remained standing in the truck’s rear hold, rather than seated up front with Carla and Forrest.

  The empty reaches through which they drove worked upon them all. The truck remained eerily silent as they ground their way south. Kevin could not risk driving faster than a horse might trot, for the pavement was riven in places with gashes so deep the bottom was lost to shadows. Even so, he pressed on as fast as he could. The sun’s passage clocked him. They could not risk being caught on this highway after dark.

  Two hours and a bit after they took the road, Forrest said, “People ahead. And guns.”

  He said it in such a conversational tone, Kevin needed a moment to realize what it meant. He shouted through the open rear window, “Pablo!”

  “Here.”

  “Forrest just raised the alarm.”

  Pablo crouched down and inserted his head into the rear cab window. “Tell me.”

  “A lot of them,” Forrest said. His eyes were shut now, his features tight with concentration. “Twenty or more. They’ve built a barricade across the road.”

  The bandits had chosen their position well. The highway traversed a narrow valley, with forest sweeping down to gnaw at the asphalt from either side. Up ahead the road curved gently, the route lost to trees and shadows.

  But Pablo didn’t seem the least bit worried. “Now you’re going to see an astonishment.”

  Kevin asked, “Should I slow?”

  “What for?” He straightened and pounded on the cab’s roof. “Hold to your course and speed!”

  Kevin was about to protest when the barricade came into view. It was fashioned from rusting vehicles and fallen trees, with a single narrow passage blocked by a gate on old tires. Guns sprouted along the entire length of the fortification.

  A man and a woman, both dressed in brown homespun and boots and wide-brimmed hats, stepped around the gate. The man held a hunting rifle, the woman a small-gauge shotgun. The man raised his hand, ordering them to stop. The woman lifted her weapon and aimed it straight at Kevin.

  Pablo called, “Dale?”

  A voice far too young to be their only line of defense shouted, “Ready!”

  “Now!”

  To Kevin’s eye, the entire mass of people and guns and fencing became caught up by an invisible plow.

  There were shouts and roars of anger and shrill screams as the people were swept aside with their barricade. Some of the bandits managed to get off shots, but they all went wide, save for the lead woman’s buckshot. Kevin winced as a pellet punched through the windshield just above his left ear. The bursts rattled against the hood and took out their right headlight.

  Then the battle of the Augusta highway was over, as quickly as it had begun.

  Vehicles and people and weapons were rammed into the tree line on either side of the road. The trees themselves shivered in protest as they absorbed the entire mess.

  “Keep pushing!” Pablo shou
ted.

  As Kevin drove past, he saw how the closest trees were bending and cracking as they gradually leaned farther back. He accelerated as fast as he dared. The cries and shouts grew steadily fainter, then vanished into the distance.

  28

  Kevin drove them through good farmland, well-watered and rich. He watched the farmers stop their late-afternoon chores and peer worriedly at the passing truck. They crossed the Saluda River south of Lake Greenwood, then turned west, taking a road that had been reduced to little more than a rutted memory. As the sun touched the western treetops, they entered the Atlanta version of Overpass, an immigrant haven called Farmers Market.

  They did not stop, however. Not yet. Instead they followed a well-used trail that headed toward the Savannah River. They halted near dusk by a well-tended house and garden, with songbirds greeting the rising moon and a lamp in every window. When the farmer and his wife emerged onto their front porch, Kevin saw how neither carried a weapon. He took that as a sign they were now close enough to Atlanta for folk to feel safe.

  For payment in advance, the team was permitted to camp by the barn, use the well and bathhouse, and cook on the outdoor stove. Kevin then paid more silver to borrow three of the farmer’s horses and a mule. The farmer did not ask why Kevin preferred not to take the truck into the market town. Instead, he walked around the truck once, took in the Charlotte militia shield that had been scratched out, touched the points where shotgun pellets had taken bites from the hood and windshield and one headlight, then walked back to the house without another word.

  Kevin was as tired as he had ever been. Tired in the manner that left him feeling old. But he had known any number of such hours, when a day’s duty as Overpass deputy had been followed by a night of transporting refugees, then another day on patrol. He did not fight the fatigue. He simply shouldered it as yet another burden.

  Pablo wanted to come with him into town, of course, but Kevin insisted he remain with the team. He selected a young woman named Irene, whose ability was communicating with certain others over long distances. Irene was in her early twenties, with an abundance of unruly blonde hair and lips the color of a ripe peach. She carried herself like a dancer, long limbed and incredibly erect. She was quiet in the manner of one who did not need either a voice or words to communicate. Kevin thought her the loveliest of the crew, and the most feminine.

  Pablo wanted him to also take Dale, the young man who had saved them on the road. But Kevin was adamant. The last thing they needed was to reveal their presence. When Pablo demanded to know what Kevin would do if trouble erupted, he did not respond. In truth he intended to send word through Irene and sacrifice himself for the team. But there was no benefit to be gained from arguing. So he simply saddled two of the rented horses and set off.

  When Kevin and Irene reached the market’s main road, they joined a parade of families. Kevin had often seen this when working with refugees, how the hour was less important than the need. Many actually preferred the night for such activities. Daylight in public places risked exposure.

  As they approached Farmers Market, the moon shone upon a boisterous village. Guards patrolling the periphery directed Kevin to a corral, where he rented space in a stable. When he asked about stowing their purchased items with the horses, the trader pointed to his own armed guards, then showed Kevin other stalls where slumbering children and piles of goods lined the interior walls.

  The night was utterly clear, and the town held a carnival air. Patrons crammed the tables of taverns rimming the market, while jugglers and musicians plied their trade for tossed pennies. The air was redolent with the fragrance of roasting meat. Kevin bought two flatbreads crammed with lamb and chopped greens and asked directions to the stalls selling fresh produce.

  He and Irene ate as they walked. The prices were outrageous, and none of the merchants appeared willing to bargain. When their canvas sacks grew heavy, they retraced their steps to the stall. Twice more they returned and stowed their goods. Entire families had joined the children in surrounding stalls, slumbering with their mounts. The barn’s guards were vigilant and wary. Kevin decided to make one more trip, then bed down in the straw for the night.

  As they returned to the market a third time, Irene surprised him by asking, “Does it bother you, my silence?”

  Kevin liked having a reason to stare at her. She was easy on the eyes. “Not at all.”

  “Most men I’ve known, they find it unsettling.”

  “You’ve known a lot of men, have you?”

  She smiled with her entire face. “I’ve known enough.”

  “You should smile more often,” Kevin said, and turned back to the road.

  Five minutes later, as they reentered the food lanes, the night erupted.

  The screams and shouts were so faint at first, they could easily have passed as merely a discordant note in the night’s clamor. But Kevin had heard such alarm before. He knew at gut level that the market was under attack.

  He and Irene had been buying a load of cabbages, inspecting each for worms or rot. He ordered her to stay where she was and headed swiftly down the road, hunting the source. That was what he had been trained for, and the biggest difference between his kind and most others. Lawmen ran toward trouble instead of away from it.

  The closer he came, the stronger the human tide surged against him. He expected to find either Atlanta’s militia or the market’s guards hunting a thief. Then he rounded a corner, and up ahead he saw the green and black uniforms of Charlotte’s troops.

  The sight was enough to shift Kevin into high gear. He slipped into a tight alcove between two stalls. His thoughts kept pace with his frantic search for a weapon. Hollis and the Charlotte mayor would use the Washington hunters as their excuse. They were here under orders from Washington. It was a feeble claim. But Hollis and his men being this far south, in such numbers, meant their goal was more important than all the underlying risks.

  They were hunting Kevin’s team.

  The stalls to either side of Kevin had cloth walls held in place by ropes tied to steel rods pounded into the earth. He used his belt knife to cut the line, then hauled first one and then a second rod from the earth. They were slightly longer than his forearm and weighed about five pounds each.

  He did not hide so much as allow the shadows to swallow him. The crowd grew denser and more frantic, being shifted against their will, protesting and fearful. Then the enemy came into view.

  The first line of Charlotte militia was composed of three men. Kevin was mildly surprised to see Hollis had paraded them in full dress uniform. He had to assume Hollis and Silas Fleming were using this excuse to do what they had wanted all along. Pick a fight with Atlanta that its mayor could not ignore.

  The three guards were equipped with electric lanterns strapped tightly to their chests, leaving their hands and arms free. The lights illuminated a wide swath of the avenue and shops to either side. They carried two clubs each and waved them back and forth, like shepherds shifting reluctant beasts.

  Kevin watched as one of the stallholders, a barrel-shaped man with a jutting black beard, stepped forward and waved his arms in protest. He shouted something about Atlanta and tribute and legality. The trooper on the left side reached out and touched him with one of the clubs. Just a touch, little more than a soft jab. There was a hiss, and the man screamed shrilly and jerked. Kevin had heard of these prods and their electric jolts. The man stumbled and would have gone down, had not another man plucked him up and pulled him along, joining the frantic, jostling crowd.

  Behind the trio walked another trooper, this one armed with a rifle. A more tightly focused light was attached to the barrel’s scope-mount. The soldier swept his weapon back and forth in practiced arcs.

  Kevin found himself resuming the same tight focus that had seen him through so many dangerous moments. Gradually the clamor faded away until he no longer heard the shouts and protests and wailing children and bleating animals. He took note of the tendrils of smoke that d
rifted overhead and knew at some vague level that a cooking stall had caught fire. But all his attention was now fastened upon the four approaching troopers. Rage built inside him, and for once he welcomed it.

  Kevin timed his approach so he was moving the instant the rifle strobe swept by. He followed the light, hoping the frontline troops’ vision would be momentarily impaired. He felt as though he glided over the earth rather than taking the four steps required to bring him up to the left-hand guard. His adrenaline-stoked brain was able to parse each breath, such that he had time to wonder if this was how a great hunting cat felt, being granted momentary wings as it flew in for the kill.

  His sudden appearance caused the trooper to jerk back. He was a bullish man in his late thirties, five inches shorter and probably fifty pounds heavier than Kevin, and was slow to respond. Having a civilian suddenly appear in combat mode was clearly the absolute last thing he expected. Kevin brought his left arm across his body. The steel rod struck the man’s head with a solid and satisfying thunk.

  Long before the man ended his spasm and started his fall, Kevin had shifted to the middle guard. He moved his right hand, swinging in a spiral, almost a dance. He continued shifting to his right while impacting the trooper’s temple. He had no time to check his work or make sure the guard was down. He had to trust the impact that had resonated up to his shoulder. Everything depended on speed.

  Luckily the right-hand guard was a green recruit, freckle faced and so young Kevin doubted he shaved regularly. And scared. The guard’s eyes were two saucers at the realization of what was coming his way. Kevin hammered the guy square in the middle of his forehead. His eyelids fluttered and his arms tried to bring up his weapons, but his brain had already shut down.

  Then the spotlight found Kevin.

  He moved by reflex born from a hundred hard hours on the Overpass live-fire training course. He dropped and rolled.

  The space where he had been was illuminated first by the strobe and then by the cracking rifle.