Enclave

by Thomas Locke

  Out where the militia trucks blocked off their lane, vehicles and buildings erupted. Debris rose in damp clouds before falling back to earth. An entire tree catapulted up above the rooflines, spiraling before disappearing once more.

  The lightning stopped. It took a long moment for Caleb’s ears to stop ringing. When they did, he heard faint cries and numerous alarms and horns and shouts.

  Then the rain pulled away from them.

  Caleb could actually see the storm being redirected. The curtain drew back, slanting so that it formed a dark grey wall over by the lane’s end.

  And turned to hail.

  The air up ahead of him became filled with translucent rocks the size of cannonballs. They fell with such force, it sounded to Caleb like a hundred thousand drums began beating all at once. Trees shivered and wrenched and lost limbs. The militia trucks were flattened. Roofs in the distance were blasted open. Windows shattered.

  Caleb had no idea how long the barrage continued. It seemed to him like hours, but he doubted it was more than a few minutes. When it ended, the rain resumed its course, falling upon them in natural waves.

  From their attackers there was no sign. No sound. Nothing. Even the alarms had gone silent.

  Caleb turned to where Pablo and his crew watched from a roofline. He waved both arms and shouted, “We have to go!”

  Pablo waved back, called to his others, and vanished.

  Caleb turned and signaled to Kevin. His friend’s wolfish grin was visible from where he and Dale stood by the city’s boundary fence. Kevin said something, the slender young man lifted his arms high, and directly ahead of where they stood . . .

  The city’s boundary wall flattened to the earth.

  The space was not more than twenty feet wide, little broader than the trucks. Kevin patted the younger man on the shoulder and ran back toward them.

  Caleb yelled, “Everybody in the trucks!”

  The first truck started and trundled forward. The second driver ground the gears terribly before lurching into line. Caleb had no idea who was behind the wheel, nor did he much care. Pablo and Kevin scrambled behind the wheel of the two militia trucks that had halted by the two they had stolen from the militia headquarters. Caleb helped pile the last remaining team and their family into the backs. The engines started, then Forrest yelled for Caleb to climb on board.

  Pablo’s truck became stuck with two wheels on the curb and two others mired in the sodden grass. Kevin jammed his vehicle into the back of Pablo’s, shoving the truck across the rain-slick lawn and through the opening. Caleb was seated by the third truck’s rear gate and felt the jarring bumps as they crossed the flattened brush. The youngest children from Maddie’s group wailed a continuous note. He found he did not mind the noise. It formed a high-pitched testimony to the fact that they had survived thus far.

  Once they were all through, they halted on the gravel road encircling the city’s perimeter fence. Kevin leapt down and yelled for Caleb to join him. Together they raced back through the barrier to where Dale stood groaning under the strain. His entire body shook like a tuning fork.

  Caleb shouted, “Help me lift him!”

  Kevin gripped Dale’s waist as Caleb took hold beneath the young man’s outstretched arms. Together they hauled Dale through the aperture. They lowered him to the earth, and Caleb told Dale, “Let go!”

  With a groaning rustle, the boundary fence folded back into place.

  They were free.

  46

  They drove through most of the night, stopping occasionally for hurried discussions and even hastier bites from the sacks of stolen food. Each time, the six of them traded ideas. Kevin, Caleb, and Pablo were joined by Carla, Irene, and Maddie, everyone talking at once, and all of them so tired they neither took note of nor cared where the ideas originated. All the mentats who had not succumbed to exhaustion were ordered to send out waves of intent, telling anyone who sought them that they were headed south, south, south. Over and over the message rang out, as though the mentats were talking among themselves, which they were. Discussing what life would be like once they reached the southern boundary, passed Jacksonville, and entered the dead zone.

  In truth, as soon as the trail they followed met a better road, they headed north.

  Caleb only shared the barest of impressions with the others. But it was enough. None of them required a more careful explanation. Nor did they have time to deliberate. Their trust in him and his plan was that strong.

  Near dawn, Forrest directed Kevin and the other drivers down a rutted trail that ended by a derelict farmhouse. The rain stopped just as the group halted. They arranged the vehicles in a semicircle around the barn, the only structure with half a roof. They hauled bedrolls and blankets inside, hunting down dry spots and scattering field mice in the process. Caleb waited while Pablo and Kevin set the guard roster, then threw himself down and was gone.

  Sometime after daybreak Caleb dreamed of the eagle design. Only this time it was etched like empty branches against a wintry sky. He opened his eyes, fully awake now, his mind filled with impressions from the dream.

  He rose from the bedroll he’d shared with a young boy no more than six or seven years of age. He took pen and paper from his pack and walked to the watch fire that burned in what was left of the farmhouse kitchen. A pail of water rested upon the stone-lined well. Caleb drank deep, washed his face, then seated himself upon a fallen roof beam.

  He was busy writing when Maddie walked over and joined him. He did not need to look up to know it was her. Nor did she find any need to speak. Even now, as he hastily scribbled down everything he could recall from this latest event, he felt surrounded by the immensity of her love. It was like a great wave of emotion had approached with her, and now it enveloped him. Patiently waiting while he wrote.

  When he set the notes aside, he looked up in time to see the eastern sky begin to clear. Brilliant streamers fell through the cloud covering, turning every surface into crystal prisms. He turned to face Maddie, and for the first time since the mad rush began, he studied her intently. Maddie continued to watch the fire, granting him space for a long and unhurried look.

  There were subtle differences from the way Caleb remembered her. She was taller than he recalled, for one thing. And her hair seemed thicker, with more blonde shades amid the brown. Her hands were seamed and the nails rimmed by torn skin. She was also quieter now, or so it seemed to him. The silence was more than just an absence of words. She carried a new stillness at a bone-deep level. And she looked exhausted. Her eyes were framed by plum circles as dark as bruises. Her skin appeared translucent, as if her fatigue had stripped away an external layer.

  They were surrounded by the soft patter of droplets falling from exposed rafters and the trees. Caleb could hear snores from inside the barn. Farther out were the soft footfalls of mentats on sentry.

  The fire’s warm glow created a haven for them as Maddie softly spoke. “I knew, Caleb. I knew you would come. It wasn’t through some form of far-seeing. That’s your gift. I knew because I know you. I was certain all it would take was one cry, one plea, and you would do what was needed and be there. For me. For all of us.”

  Caleb resisted the urge to reach out and embrace her. She needed this chance to speak, as he had to study her.

  Maddie watched the crackling fire and went on, “I had no evidence, nothing I could show the others. We couldn’t risk contacting you. I knew the suits had watchers in place. So late at night I shared with all those who could connect by thoughts or images or emotions . . .”

  “We call them mentats,” Caleb said.

  She nodded acceptance. “I shared with our mentats what I knew about the man I love.”

  “How many mentats are there among you?”

  “It’s so hard to say. The youngest ones are . . . I suppose flexible is the best word to describe them. Most of them received enough to tell their families I was going to make everything okay. The adult mentats did the same.” She looked at him, reveal
ing the golden flecks in her gaze, the unshed tears. “It was so hard, Caleb. I’ve spent my entire life hiding. But here I was, using my secret gift to share the deepest part of what I knew about the man I love.”

  He reached for her then. She molded herself to him. They sat like that, warmed by far more than a meager fire, until approaching footsteps sounded behind them and Kevin asked, “Can we join you?”

  “Yes,” Caleb said, and straightened, because it was time.

  They were joined by Carla and Irene and Pablo and Forrest. Then Dale and Tula and Hank. Tea was made in the water pail, the largest container they possessed, and gradually others came over and seated themselves.

  While they shared what food they had left and passed around mugs, Caleb used a blank sheet of paper and drew the image he had now envisioned twice, that of the eagle in full flight. He handed it to Maddie, who passed it on. As it made the rounds, Caleb said, “I have a plan.”

  47

  They entered Charlotte by the last light of a fading day. The sky was washed utterly clear. They were all exhausted by the journey. One of the trucks had been lost when its front axle broke. Another simply ran out of fuel. Those passengers had been redistributed. Now they were crammed in so tightly most of their packs had been jettisoned. There had been complaints, but not many, for even the youngest members understood the critical need for haste.

  Caleb had divided their meager band into two teams. He had wanted to travel to Fort Mills and be there to take on Hollis. But Kevin and Pablo were insistent. He was their leader, and he needed to be seen as the one who conquered the mayor’s palace. Caleb wanted to argue, for the step carried a sense of greater burdens to come. Then Maddie chimed in as well, and Caleb’s protests had gone unspoken.

  Barry had used his powers to stifle communication. How far he reached or how much he actually achieved, no one knew. But when they arrived at the city’s southern gates, the militia was caught completely off guard. As were the sentries around the officers’ residence compound and the main barracks and training grounds. Wherever the group stopped and directed their mental weapons, the militia scattered in full panic.

  They halted at the outlying militia barracks long enough for a hot meal and fresh vehicles. Then one group drove to the militia headquarters, while Caleb and his team set off for the city’s heart.

  Maddie stood beside Caleb now as they drove through the gates that Dale had pried open. All the militia on duty around the mayor’s palace had long since fled. The pristine garden fronting the palace itself was just as Kevin had described, a beautiful array of flowers watered by the sweat and tears of workers scarcely better off than slaves of old. Serfs, Kevin had called them, products of a regime that deserved its fate.

  Caleb and his team climbed down from the truck and stood in front of the silent house. There was movement by the second-floor window, a quick jerk of a curtain, then nothing.

  Forrest said, “I detect no guns.”

  “It’s a shame,” Dale said, “to destroy such a beautiful building.”

  “No it’s not,” Maddie replied.

  Caleb took a long breath. It had never been about simply rescuing Maddie. In truth, he now viewed her imprisonment as a terrible necessity. Not just for himself but for the awakening of abilities and strengths among all his group. So that they could arrive here. And do what was required. So that they all might have a future.

  The aim was far from simple, but as clear now as the sky overhead. They were to establish a new enclave. One standing upon the same principles of equality and democracy that had been put in place when their nation was first founded. Rule of law, Kevin had often repeated. Every citizen was to be treated equally, regardless of power or status or abilities. And all were to be made welcome.

  Especially adepts.

  Their days of running in fear were over.

  Maddie said, “Caleb.”

  “Yes?”

  “The others say they’re ready.”

  He took a long breath, then said, “Attack.”

  1

  Ten years ago this month, they started drawing the train station, one positioned on another world.

  They had the same image burning in their brains, in their hearts. The station was a tube pinched at both ends, like a twisted candy wrapper. They argued over how big it was. A couple of miles long at least. And the trains, they were all glass. Not like trains with windows. Glass trains. And the tubes they traveled in, glass as well. But that wasn’t the best part.

  The trains came and went all over the tube. Top, sides, bottom. Gravity modulation, that was definitely Dillon’s term. Sean assumed his brother got the concept from some sci-fi novel, but Dillon insisted it came to him in a dream. Whatever. They drew the station on sheets from sketch pads and pasted them all over their two rooms. Walls and ceilings. Forget posters of rock groups and models. Even as they entered their teens, there was nothing they wanted more than to build on the dream. Leave the same-old behind. And fly to a world they were somehow sure was more than just a figment of two imaginations. So they kept drawing, adding cities of lyrical majesty that rose beyond the station. They were connected to this place like the ticket was in the mail. Ten years had changed nothing.

  The idea came to them when they were seven. Nowadays Dillon claimed it was his concept. But Sean knew his twin was just blowing smoke. Dillon had a highly convenient memory. He remembered things the way he wished they were. Sean decided it wasn’t worth arguing over. Dillon tended to go ballistic whenever his remake of history was challenged. But Sean knew the idea was his. Totally.

  Still, he let Dillon claim he was the one who came up with the concept. The one that powered them through the worst times. Kept them moving forward. That was the most important thing. They had it in their bones.

  Only that spring, the concept and all the bitter yearnings attached to it actually did change into something more.

  They were coming from the school bus, walking the line of cookie-cutter homes in suburban Raleigh. They lived in a development called Plantation Heights, six miles northeast of the old town, the cool town. All the good stuff was farther west. The Research Triangle Park. Duke University. UNC Chapel Hill. NC State. Five different party centrals. That particular Friday afternoon was great, weather-wise. Not too hot, nice breeze, Carolina blue sky. Two weekends before the end of the school year was also good for a high, even if they were both still looking for a job. Just two more of the local horde, searching for grunt work that paid minimum wage at best. But their eighteenth birthdays were only four months and six days off. That summer they would take their SATs and begin the process of trying to find a university that would accept them both. Because they definitely wanted to stay together. No matter how weird the world might find it, the topic had been cemented in a conversation that lasted, like, eleven seconds.

  The biggest focus for their summer was to find something that paid enough to buy a car. Their rarely used drivers’ licenses burned holes in their back pockets. Their desire to acquire wheels and escape beautiful suburbia fueled an almost daily hunt through the want ads.

  Dillon looked up from his phone and announced, “Dodge is coming out with a new Charger SRX. Five hundred and seventy-one ponies.”

  Sean tossed his brother his backpack. “I’m not hauling your weight for you to go trolling for redneck clunkers.”

  Dillon stowed his phone and slung his pack. “You and your foreign junk.”

  “Seven-series BMW, V12, blow your Charger into last week.”

  “For the cost of a seven-series we could get two Chargers and take our ladies to New York for a month.”

  “The kind of ladies who would set foot in a Charger would rather go to Arkansas, buy some new teeth.”

  They turned the corner and saw a U-Haul partly blocking their drive. Two hefty guys were shifting furniture from the truck into the house next door. Moving trucks were a fairly common sight in Plantation Heights. The development held over three hundred houses. Or rather, one home cloned
three hundred times. Which was how Sean came up with his name for the residences and the people who lived here. Clomes.

  They stopped, mildly curious over who was moving in next door.

  Dillon said, “For a moment there I thought maybe Big Phil had decided to relocate us.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “We’re going to walk in and he’ll tell us we’re turning urban. We’ll move into a downtown loft. Burn the polyester and go Armani.”

  Sean had a quip ready. He always did. Two o’clock in the morning, he’d be woken up by some comment his brother had dreamed up, literally. The response was always there, just waiting. Only this time his retort died unspoken, because their new neighbor came out his front door.

  Adult clomes basically came in two shapes. The fitness freaks had skinny moms and overpumped dads. They talked about their bikes or their yoga or their weekend trips to hike around Maui in an hour. The other clomes wore their sofas like lounge suits. The farthest they moved was to the fridge or the backyard grill. They talked about . . . Actually, Sean didn’t really care what they talked about.

  Their new neighbor definitely did not fit in Clome Heights.

  For one thing, he only had one hand.

  The left sleeve of his shirt was clipped up, hiding the stump that ended just below his elbow. He limped as he walked. He was lean and dark complexioned, like he’d been blasted by some foreign sun for so long his skin was permanently stained. This man could have taken the biggest guy in Plantation Heights and turned him into a clome sandwich. One-handed.

  When the guy turned around, they probably saw the scar at the same moment, because Dillon dragged in the breath Sean had trouble finding. The scar emerged from the top of his shirt, ran around the left side of his neck, clipped off the bottom third of his ear, and vanished into his hairline. Military-style crew cut. Of course. The jagged wound was punctuated with scar tissue the size and shape of small flowers.