Out of Exodia Read online

  Then their tongues were parched. They grumbled against him saying, “What are we to drink?”

  FOR TOO LONG we’ve traveled without finding water. Exhaustion and thirst hold everyone captive. The first night we spread across a meadow and slept in tents and makeshift shelters or shared the bare ground with blankets and bugs. It reminded me of the march into Exodia fourteen months ago, when I had a wife, a baby, an extended family of eight more.

  The second night Malcolm’s cloud-like beam from Ronel’s electronic device changed our course and we trudged northeast until we came upon a ghost town. It wasn’t much different from the nameless town where Kassandra and her family and I were captured. Perhaps the same thing happened to this place though it must have been ten or more years ago. The streets were trackless, littered, dusty even. We filled the empty houses with our horde of exiles, slept on beds and musty couches, and dreamed of finding a town where electricity and water both flowed.

  This is our third day of what started out as a hopeful journey, flags waving and songs shouted more than sung. Yesterday heads hung, men grumbled, and women whispered about turning back.

  I help gather our things and walk out of the dilapidated house with Harmon and Mira. Our timing is perfect. Lydia, her mother, and two others are wrestling their bags through the broken door of the house across the way.

  “A step up from the Red slum, isn’t it?” Lydia calls out in obvious jest. Her smile masks the grief that continues to keep her countenance from glowing.

  Out of the corner of my eye I sense movement to the side of the third house down. Eugene Hoi, the leader of the Mourners, stands with hands on hips, staring. A group of people mimic him, setting their bags and boxes at their feet and moving in closer to him. More hands on hips. All men, and too young to be the aggrieved fathers of the murdered babies.

  Murdered babies. It’s a quick jump for me to understand the connection. The letters tell what mourning parents remember: berm buries dead. Mira has told me the story of how my mother saved me from the Culling Mandate, brought me to the capitol, and exchanged me for Olivia Battista’s stillborn son so I’d be raised in safety. Mira, still a child herself, added that tiny corpse to the berm where so many children were buried. It frightens me that these Mourners have held another’s sin against me all these twenty years.

  The Mourners. My prophetic gift holds my tongue as those eleven letters slip around it until I say, “Resume north.” Lydia stops and follows my gaze. It is a strange response I make to her remark, but she understands when she sees the Mourners. She hurries her mother and the two women with them on up the street toward the cloudy beacon that Malcolm has charged.

  Harmon urges Mira to follow the women as more and more people group up in the street and head north.

  “Hey, O’Shea! Or whatever you call yourself now,” Eugene yells from down the street. “Don’t think we’re on your side. We wanted out of Exodia and we’ll use you and your brother for as long as it’s convenient. But you’ll never be our leader. Understand?”

  I hear Harmon’s slow intake of breath next to me. We are under David Ronel’s authority. He’s the one who put my brother and me in charge. I doubt that Eugene and his cronies would dispute that or even consider fighting against Ronel, but there’s nothing in any phrase or sentence he speaks that reforms in my mind to give me the words to control this situation.

  I picture the last anagram and say no louder than necessary to be heard, “Mourners. Resume north.”

  We don’t wait for their response; we heave up our bags and packs and step into the street, turning to follow the rest.

  I hear Eugene’s soft curse and I hear something else too that makes me keep my back to them as they charge us. These mindless bullies roar foul threats at our backs and come up wild and fast. Harmon turns to fight, but I’m not surprised when they swerve around us, hoot and holler, then turn back to fetch their gear.

  We catch up to the women and try to quicken our pace to reach the front of the crowd, but it’s like an obstacle course. Rusted relics, broken cars, and other sorts of trash litter the way like metallic weeds sprouting to impede our passage.

  Mira is full of questions. “Why doesn’t Malcolm have to be in front? He’s just over there and the cloud looks like it’s a mile further ahead. How does that contraption work? Is that one of Ronel’s inventions or did you have something to do with it, Harmon?”

  My brother answers her with math equations and technical terms until her eyes glaze over. Lydia smiles at me and we share a silent understanding. She’s on my left and as she focuses forward again I study her face. The early morning sun hits her right cheek, glints off her eye, and sends a tingling sensation to my heart that explodes in my chest. I swore to myself that I’d tell her how I felt as soon as we crossed the bridge, but because of Barrett’s passing I’ve waited.

  * * *

  Some people walk briskly while children skip alongside, but after four hours many slow considerably and the smallest kids hitch rides on wagons or fathers’ backs. The Reds have spread themselves miles apart with the quickest ones twenty miles closer to our promised destination. The stragglers are miles behind. It’s easy to see the electronic cloud, but following it means choosing individual paths. As some keep a straight course others look for easier routes. For those pulling carts choosing between forest path or rough road means catching up if they guess correctly or falling behind if the road veers right or left. I haven’t seen Harmon and Mira in a while.

  * * *

  Lydia tried to keep her mind off Barrett’s sudden death by alternating between trying to draw a few words out of an extra quiet Bram or chatting with the two women who had latched on to her mother. Onita, whose hands were always telling a story, and Marilyn were in their mid-twenties, unmarried, and roommates ever since their families had been exterminated by Truslow’s soldiers in 2094. Both wore their hair too short to ever be mistaken for Blues. Lydia’s mother, Jenny, knew them from work and had a relationship with them that alternated between friendship and mothering.

  “I’m out of water,” Onita said. “You have any left, Marilyn?” Her fingers moved as if reaching for an imaginary bottle.

  Her friend shook her head. She glanced at Bram who kept his eyes on the silver cloud ahead which seemed balanced over several acres of untilled farmland. Then she tapped Jenny and whispered, “Are you as thirsty as I am?”

  Jenny nodded. Lydia pulled out a small bottle from her belt sack and handed it to Onita. There was barely an ounce left.

  “Oh, I couldn’t take your last drop.”

  “Go ahead.” Lydia thrust the bottle at her with a half smile. To Bram she said, “I wish we had that camp well I gave you. Remember? We could have used it about now.”

  Bram tightened his lips and nodded his head. He looked over at Onita who was tapping the bottom of the upturned bottle to get the last drop. “We’ll come across a river or a lake soon and everything’ll be fine.” Onita handed the empty bottle back.

  Close by a fight broke out. The argument over a full jug of water had brought three men to their neighbor’s defense, but hot heads and quick tempers escalated the disagreement. Soon there were twenty, then thirty, then more brawling across the brown fields they were trampling.

  Harmon came stumbling out of the fray. “Bram. You have to do something. I can’t stop the fighting by myself.”

  “Where’s Mira?” He had lost track of her mid-morning when he had noticed a handsome man pulling the supplies for her. He assumed she was no more than a half mile behind.

  “Mira? She can’t help with this.”

  “The box. She has it. You need to put together a new rod. I don’t think I’ll get any respect without the authority that weapon will give me.”

  Harmon nodded, “Right.” He looked in all directions until he spied his sister’s familiar frame stepping around some old machinery rusting in the field. “There she is. Wait. Look.” He pointed to the south. “Another fight.”

  It was cl
ear that people’s tempers had reached the breaking point. No one had brought enough water. Food supplies were dwindling, too.

  Harmon dropped his bags at Bram’s feet and took off toward Mira. He skirted the angry groups of fighters and felt his own body cry out for liquid.

  He reached his sister, ignored the man who was helping her, and tore at the rope binding the boxes and bags together.

  “Hey, Buddy,” the man grabbed at Harmon’s shoulder, “get outta her stuff!”

  Mira pulled his hand away. “It’s all right, Josh. He’s my brother. What do you need, Harmon? Hope you’re not looking for water, ’cause I’m out.”

  “I was looking for this.” He eased the small case out. He set the box on the ground, opened it, and carefully assembled the ten sections. They snapped together to make a rod identical to the one he and Bram had used in Exodia. “There. This ought to get their attention.”

  He ran his fingers down the shaft and found the recessed tab he needed. A quick click and the end he had pointed skyward erupted in sparks. He held the rod aloft and shouted for the attention of those around him. The rod sent a stronger stream of laser-like embers into the air. When they shot up like fireworks Harmon had everyone’s interest.

  He moved the rod above him in wide circles sending showers of bright cinders in all directions. He paraded across the field back to Bram, planted the rod in the dirt at his feet, then moved aside. The umbrella of light made Bram look unearthly, but every eye was on him and every ear listened as he spoke.

  * * *

  “Enough fighting,” I say, unsure what my next words will be. Perhaps it’s sufficient to simply glare at them one at a time. I turn a quarter to my left and then another and another until I’ve made a circle. I hear a distant voice, a child’s, asking her mother if what I hold is a rocket from war. And now I know my next words. Rocket from war. Water from rock.

  “Stop your bickering!” I set my eyes on a mound of rocks that some long ago farmer heaped up in the corner of his field. “Bring your bottles and jugs. You’ll have water from those rocks.”

  The rain of sparks ends and I pull the rod out of the ground and carry it like a lance to the rock pile. I jab at the topmost rock, strike it harder, and wait. A thin trickle of water runs down the rock face and moistens the ground at my feet. Those closest to me gasp and a shout goes up. I move out of the way as people scramble to be first.

  I look to Lydia and let the corners of my mouth lift. I wave her forward, but before she moves another shout, an angry one, splits the noise. And then another.

  “We can’t drink this. It’s stale. Or polluted.”

  “It’s bitter!”

  “Where’s the fresh water? Do something!”

  I push through the crowd and strike the rock again then hold the smoking end of the rod in the water. It tingles in my grasp, grows sharper in pain, but I trust my power.

  “Look!”

  Like a gusher the water begins to shoot out from between the rocks. Out and up and back to earth. The people hold their mouths open to the rain. It tastes fine to me. Sweet in fact.

  I walk to every pile of rocks around the field, twelve in all, and do the same. Those who walked ahead turn back to take their turn at filling bottles; those behind run to catch up, afraid the water will run out before they get here.

  * * *

  “Well, we can’t camp here,” Harmon says. “The ground is too soggy now.” I nod at him as if I have a plan. I don’t, but I have a seed of an idea.

  I tell him to hold on a minute and I look around for Malcolm. He’s easy to spot because lots of kids have thronged around him like a little entourage. They beg him to make the cloud change colors, ask to touch the box, or offer to carry it themselves. He’s patient with them.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Yes, sir.” He waves the closer kids aside and gently suggests they let me come through. “It’s Bram O’Shea, kids. Make way, make way.”

  The younger ones scatter. Some of the boys cross their arms and stand where they are; a hint of defiance shared makes them seem older than they are. I’m fully aware that the girls are giggling and not at all in awe of me.

  “I wondered—” My words stop, my breath catches as I read the words carved onto the side of this miraculous machine: theistic love tone. “What on earth?” I squint at the letters then touch them.

  “Godly, ain’t it?” Malcolm snickers. He kneels and gently rests the machine on the ground, lifts the shoulders straps off, and frees himself of the heavy burden. He has a smaller pack on his back. Personal things, I suppose, and he takes that off too and stretches. He shows me a secret compartment he discovered in the side of the box, big enough to insert something rectangular, like a book, but that doesn’t interest me now. I am captivated by those letters.

  I squat down and stare at the words, but I can’t come up with a prophecy. Thousands of individual words pop into my head, each a part of this strange phrase: vote, net, tithe, teeth, thine, ethics, echo, elect, violence, honest. But nothing more takes shape.

  I’ve forgotten that the kids are watching me until a girl, a gemfry girl, puts her small hand on my brow and smooths away my frown. She gives me a hint of the puzzle with a whisper, “Listen.”

  Theistic love tone. I see the word listen and then the whole phrase forms: Listen to the voice.

  Malcolm’s head is cocked toward the machine. “Hear it?” He taps the top. “Pretty sweet hum, huh? Drove me crazy at first. Kind of soothing now.”

  There must be a deaf spot in my hearing since I can’t detect any hum at all.

  But I hear the voice.

  Do what is right. Pay attention to my commands. I am the Lord. One mile. Twelve springs. Camp there.

  * * ** * ** * *

  Lydia walked alongside Bram as they followed the cloud one more mile to a place they would’ve easily missed had they kept to the wide path. The parking lot had been bulldozed into mounds of broken asphalt. Concrete bumper blocks lay in piles against faded walls. Crumbling signage designated the century old shopping depot as Twelve Springs Mall. The cloud settled itself over the south entrance and didn’t move even as Malcolm approached, finally setting his equipment down near the boarded up doors.

  “Are we breaking in?” Lydia asked Bram.

  “We’re supposed to camp here. We won’t need to break in. It’ll be open.” Bram was positive. Lydia noticed the change in his self-confidence.

  “It certainly should be,” Malcolm agreed. “And this should help with any electronic locks that haven’t rusted shut.” He knelt over the box and ran his thumb over a small read-out window on the side. “There.”

  Bram gave him a quick nod and checked around him as more and more of the Reds crowded closer. He directed three men to help him pry off the rotting boards and expose the metal gates completely. They muscled the gates apart and tried pulling on the thick glass doors. The locks were disengaged, but they had to scrape the doors hard against the floor tiles to open them completely. Children ran in ignoring the shouts and cautionary pleas of their parents.

  “It’s light inside,” Lydia said, stepping through with a throng of mothers. Bram nodded and followed right behind her.

  Once through the entrance the space opened up to the right and left. Skylights above, mostly broken, let in shafts of daylight as well as birds. The brick flooring was splattered with fresh droppings. The interior atrium gardens were either overgrown jungles or desiccated graveyards depending on whether a broken skylight had allowed enough rain in to water the trees and plants. Lydia commented about the creepiness of the place over her shoulder to Bram. He gave no response.

  It took nearly an hour for the first group of Reds to funnel into the mall and explore. The individual stores had roll down security grilles whose locks were set to open, thanks to Malcolm’s electronics. Men pushed them up, claiming the space inside for their families.

  “I didn’t expect to find merchandise here,” Lydia said, turning back to Bram. “What do you think h
appened? It looks like they had time to clear out half the inventory and then locked up.”

  Bram speculated aloud, “The Suppression.”

  Chapter 3 Losing Lydia

  From the eighth page of the first Ledger:

  And when he heard the voice he asked, “How many are my foes? How many will rise up against me?

  I’M NOT SO sure that the people who are staking out the bed section of the furniture store will have it any better than the rest of us. Who knows what’ll be crawling in those mattresses with them.

  Mira leads us to the jewelry store and lays claim to it by parking her sled in front of the first empty display case. Harmon joins her, waving off the young man who helped Mira today, and beckoning Jenny and her two friends to join them. Lydia and I follow them into the store. The women are reluctant until Mira discovers the manager’s office in the back which has two couches still covered in plastic as well as two lounge chairs. I imagine we’ll be sleeping in shifts, but that’s all right.

  Lydia flops into one of the chairs and I take the other while the Harmon and Mira unpack their stuff and Jenny, Onita, and Marilyn go off to search out what plumbing options might still be viable.

  Lydia twirls a strand of hair and focuses on her knees. There’s not much light coming through the door, but there’s enough filtering in through a large window that looks out into the store.

  “Hey.” I catch Lydia’s eye and point. “Wasn’t that a mirror in the other room?”

  She pulls herself up and frowns. “I’ll check.” She walks out and I see her come around to the window and touch it. I wave, but she lifts her hand to her hair and finger-combs it. She stares at her reflection. The frown hasn’t left her face. I get up and stand opposite her. We are only inches apart, so close, but still she doesn’t see me. Her eyes search her own. I witness the tears. It breaks my heart to think she grieves so deeply for Barrett. The words of love I’ve rehearsed will stay stuck in my throat until she puts whatever bond she had with him to rest.