Rainwalkers

by Matt Ritter

  affected neither the plants nor the soil fungi, so the diverse Valley crops prospered despite, and because of, each night’s toxic bathing. If such were not the case, Valley residents would have starved within weeks of the first deadly rains that ended the hundred years of drought. Instead, each morning the Valley soil took on deadly water at all sides and purified it as it ran toward the enduring river at its center.

  Along the entire Valley border, out past the rolling low hills of the eastern Gabilans, a high wall ran through the dust, sagebrush, and dry grass. It was a wall without end, circling the Valley, neither beginning nor ending at any location, and broken only at the guarded border crossings. Lonely young men in poorly built lookout towers were perched along the wall, watching the sun rise and feeling the dry rattling desert breath howl in from the east. Beyond their sight, far past the golden horizon, stretched a dryness so complete that life could no longer be sustained in any of it. Dead stands of brittle creosote and the broken stems of burrobush stretched across vast expanses on the surface of what was once the western North American continent.

  What was beyond the uncrossable deserts, no living Valley person knew. Two generations had passed since the Regional Breakup and little accurate history was retained. With no means of long-distance travel, no contact nor even memory of contact remained with others on the eastern edge of the continent. Life in the Valley was insular, and information was sparse. Rumors circulated the Valley, most of which were false, either accidentally or purposely designed for fearmongering about the never-ending conflict with the Valley’s only known neighbors, the San Benicians.

  The Salinas River was swollen and churning from the night’s rain when Will and Zach descended the old man’s steps. Will looked at the hazy wall of clouds in the distance. The sun was rising over the low-rolling Gabilans and illuminating the Santa Lucias to the west.

  This Valley was Will’s home. He’d always loved it, served it, and was nearly killed twice while defending it. Although he’d never been far from the confines of its borders, he figured it was the most beautiful place in all the known world. Except for bordering San Benician territory, which he’d been in only once and was lucky to have escaped alive, he’d only heard stories of other places in the world. Paris, New York, Europe, Asia, they may as well have been on other planets.

  Even though true seasons no longer existed in the Valley, this day would have fallen in early spring, and the morning was already warming. On the foothills to the east, rows of abandoned orchards with their twisted and unpruned ancient limbs bloomed beautifully in the morning dew, each releasing a melancholy sweetness that beckoned like a forgotten lover for bees that would never return.

  “You two have a long walk ahead of you,” said the old man. “Couldn’t have asked for better weather, though.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Zach said.

  “Don’t mention it,” said the old man, still gazing at the sky. “Looks like you’re free of rain for the good part of the day. Now get movin’.”

  “If anyone comes asking after us, we’d appreciate you forgetting we were here,” Will said, working his fingertips over the new Steri-strips on his cheek.

  “You got it,” the old man said as he turned back to his front door.

  Downvalley they went, through the warmth of the morning. They skirted the wide arroyos and dry creek beds of the Gabilans, then trudged west through the mud of the midvalley alluvial fan. Hiding in the shrubs under a culvert beneath the longvalley highway, they watched a UP convoy rumble by. Young boys in new light blue uniforms sat shoulder to shoulder on a string of old flatbed trucks, their wind-chapped faces turned downward.

  “You were in the UP?” Zach asked Will as he rubbed his sore thigh.

  Will took a long drink of water, then handed the bottle to Zach. He watched the trucks disappear into the distance. “A long time ago.”

  Zach finished drinking. “If it weren’t for my hurt leg, I’d be on one of those trucks.”

  Will looked at Zach. He was so young, too young it seemed to be out here with him. “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “Do you miss being a soldier?”

  Will shook his head. “I miss being a farmer. I was a soldier because I had to be.”

  The diesel hum of the convoy had faded, and Will rose. “Come on. We need to keep going.”

  By the time the sun was low and threatening its descent over the Santa Lucias, Zach and Will were on the western outskirts of a small town. They stood near a rusty tin rain shelter in the hummocks of grassy weeds at the edge of a fallow field. The other side of the field yielded abruptly to abandoned houses and old buildings. Above them, a silver water tower with faded and chipped lettering that read GREENFIELD sat like a pewter egg endwise on a stand.

  Will and Zach waited and watched from a distant stand of sheoaks but could see no activity. These were recently abandoned buildings, their carefully tended yards not yet gone to seed, but no people could be seen.

  “Where is everyone?” Zach asked Will after they had stood several minutes in silence.

  “I don’t know,” Will said, looking nervously about. “We can’t be seen here. The people are gone, but there are likely UP around.”

  “It’s like the town’s been cleared out.”

  “Yeah, let’s head through it that way,” Will said, pointing to the fields skirting the town to the west.

  Minutes later they were walking on a path behind a hedgerow at the edge of a field when Will grabbed Zach from behind.

  “Get down,” he said, pulling on Zach’s shoulder.

  They crouched in the ditch, watching a group of low buildings with matching green roofs a short distance away. Along one roof a banner was strung that read Today’s Learners Tomorrow’s Leaders. A UP soldier in his light blue uniform stood on the blacktop of an abandoned playground. He was yelling and pointing at something.

  “Can you see what’s going on?” Zach asked.

  “No.”

  Two soldiers in light blue pants, who had removed their jackets, emerged from behind one of the school buildings. Each was turned around, walking backward, dragging a bundle along the ground, while the older soldier yelled at them.

  “We have to get out of here,” Will whispered to Zach. “Stay low and behind the hedges.”

  They were about to make a break for the trees at the back of the adjacent field when they heard someone yell at them.

  “Hey. Don’t move.”

  They turned to see another UP soldier who had been off on the edge of the field urinating because his fly was still unzipped. He looked to Will like a surprised and frightened teenager, even younger than Zach.

  He nervously lifted his rifle in their direction. “Stay right there. Drop your weapons and slowly put down your backpacks. I’ll shoot you if I have to.”

  They lifted their hands slowly. Zach reached for the rifle, which he’d tied to his backpack.

  “Hey,” the young soldier yelled in the cracking high voice of a child. “Slowly, put it down.”

  Both Will and Zach dropped their bags and backed away from the soldier with their hands in the air. The rifle sat in the soil next to Zach’s bag. Will studied the young soldier. He could see how his fear and inexperience distracted him, made him make small mistakes in his movements. Will was completely still, untroubled. He looked down to see Zach’s hands shaking and wanted to say to him, this is not the moment you’re afraid of.

  “Now turn around. Walk toward the school.”

  They came across the field, their long afternoon shadows stretched out in front, on a dirt path to the playground. The UP soldier followed Zach and Will with the gun trained on them from a distance.

  “I got something,” the guard yelled from behind them, getting the attention of the other soldiers standing on the playground.

  “What do we have here?” asked the lead soldier as they approached. “A couple of deserters? Resistance fighters maybe?” He was clearly older than the other soldiers and wore
a mocking smile. He pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and approached Will.

  “So, what do you two have to say for yourselves? What’re you doing out here?” He turned to the two other soldiers who had stopped dragging the bundles and said, “You two get back to work. There’s still plenty to do.”

  “We’re headed downvalley,” Will said, his voice as casual as a man describing the weather. He could feel the stiff handle of the revolver tucked into his belt against his lower back. Will kept his steady hands up where the soldier could see them. He was neither nervous nor scared but wanted to deal with the soldiers and move on as quickly as possible.

  “Walking downvalley, huh?” The soldier’s sardonic smile returned. “Sure you are.”

  Will could feel himself growing irritated. He didn’t have time for this. Let’s get on with it, he thought. He continued to wait for the right opportunity. These men weren’t skilled soldiers. They were recently enlisted teenagers who had failed to even search him for his weapon. The safety was still engaged on the rifle pointed at his back.

  The lead soldier could seemingly sense the complete lack of fear in Will’s gaze and spoke in a hurried and nervous tone. “Looks like we got ourselves a couple of resistance fighters. Lucky us. Nobody’s supposed to be in this part of the Valley. What’re you doing out here?”

  “Just told you, walking downvalley.” Will’s voice was steady. “We’re headed to UP headquarters to enlist in the Valley army. If it’s fine with you, we’ll be on our way.”

  The two other soldiers returned from around the corner of the building dragging something in a canvas roll.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said the soldier as he turned to watch the men dragging the load. Will glanced at Zach, who was wide-eyed and panting. The two men slid the canvas roll along the asphalt to the edge of the playground where a wide hole had been dug. They unfolded the canvas to expose the bodies of three children. They kneeled and rolled each of them into the hole.

  Will’s mouth fell open, and he involuntarily put one of his raised hands against it. He could hear Zach gasp.

  Will took a deep breath to steady himself. He lunged at the lead soldier and was on him in a step and a half. The soldier didn’t have time to lift his pistol before Will grabbed him, swung him around, and held him from behind by the neck. He knocked his handgun to the ground and, with a free hand, pulled the gun from his belt to the side of the soldier’s head. Will stepped back slowly, pulling the soldier with him.

  “Easy now,” he said to the boy soldier who had discovered them. “You move and he gets shot right here.” The boy kept his gun trained on Will. “Set the rifle on the ground. I’ll let him go, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Don’t put your gun down. You shoot this man,” said the lead soldier. “Don’t be a damn coward.”

  “No, no, easy,” Will said slowly, crouching behind his captive. “You shoot and everyone dies. Put the gun down.”

  The soldier kept the rifle raised, shakily considering his options. Five seconds passed, then Will turned the gun from the side of the soldier’s head and pointed it at the boy.

  “Please, put it down.”

  “Shoot him,” the lead soldier shrieked.

  The boy made a slight movement, lifting his gun in Will’s direction. Will squeezed his trigger and shot the boy in the chest, who fell back while firing his rifle into the air. Will returned the gun to the side of the lead soldier’s head and whipped him around in the direction of the other two soldiers.

  “You two, over here now,” Will commanded.

  Will nodded to the handgun at his feet and said to Zach, “Grab that gun.”

  Zach stared at the hole. The two soldiers at the edge of the blacktop stood paralyzed, mouths agape. “Zach,” Will said again, his voice louder, “grab the gun.”

  Zach picked up the gun and aimed it at the two soldiers.

  “On your knees,” Will said, pushing the soldier he was holding down in front of him. “Hands behind your head.”

  Will glanced at Zach, who still wore a stunned expression. He was having difficulty holding his gun steady. “Zach, we’re fine. Stay calm.”

  “What is this, Will?” Zach asked, his face going white.

  “I don’t know.” Will’s expression remained unchanged.

  With all three men lined up on their knees and Zach with the gun trained on them, Will searched them for other weapons.

  “Stay right where you are.” Turning to Zach, Will said, “Keep the gun on them. Shoot if they move.”

  Will walked to the soldier he'd shot, who was motionless on his back. He picked up his rifle, put it over his shoulder, and kneeled next to him. The boy’s watery eyes were wide open, staring upward. The afternoon sky had come into them. Will felt for a pulse in his neck and found none. He let out a long sigh, then turned back to the other men.

  He went to the hole at the edge of the playground. Down in that hole, crisscrossed in all directions, were the bodies of twelve children. Will held his hand to his mouth. The dead children seemed to range in age from toddlers to bodies that were as old as his daughter.

  An icy shiver went through his spine as he quickly scanned the pile for any who looked like her. She couldn’t be here. She’s still in Gonzales. Still alive. He walked around the corner of the building and saw five more children lined up on a canvas tarp, ready for transport to the hole.

  With the pistol still in his hand and the rifle around his shoulder, Will approached the three soldiers on their knees. He could feel sweat accumulating on his brow. His face was hot, his mouth had gone dry, and a deep burn radiated from his wounded cheek. A familiar rage grew in Will’s mind, but he had learned how to suppress it.

  “What’s going on, Will?” Zach repeated his question as Will returned. “Why are those kids dead?”

  Will approached the soldiers from behind and yelled, “What is this?”

  Nobody spoke.

  Will kicked the lead soldier between his shoulder blades, and he went down on his face.

  “Speak.” Will’s voice boomed. “What happened to these children?”

  Will grabbed him by the shirt collar and lifted him back up into a kneeling position.

  “We were following orders,” the soldier said with a look of confidence in having done the right thing. There was soil on his lips, and he spat onto the ground in front of him.

  Will came around to face the soldier and kneeled to speak to him. “What have you done?”

  “What they told me to do. My commander took the survivors, and we were left here to clean up. Get them all buried.”

  “Survivors?”

  “Three of them.”

  Will looked up at the hole, then scanned the school buildings. He felt as if they were being watched.

  Will shook the gun in the soldier’s face. The desire to hit him was overwhelming. He wanted so badly to punish him, to knock the cocky look from his jaw. As a young man, Will’s temper consumed and controlled him, but he’d learned during the war to squelch it, to channel it. He reached back and slapped the soldier with the butt of the gun, who rolled over and went limp on the ground.

  Will drew a slow breath, stepped back, and said, “Stay where you are. Face-down on the ground. If I see you move, I’ll come back and shoot each of you.”

  Zach backed away.

  “Go grab our bags out in the field,” Will commanded.

  As Zach hobbled off to retrieve the bags, Will returned to the boy he’d shot. This wasn't the first person Will Taft had killed, not by a long shot, but he could remember everyone. He’d always told himself that each of them, the UP guard at the labor camp, the San Benician soldiers on the other side of the border, deserved it. Kill or be killed. Will checked again for the boy’s pulse. His eyes had turned cloudy, and purple blood solidified around the open bullet hole above his sternum.

  Will reached down and carefully zipped the boy’s fly. “I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, then rose and followed Zach do
wnvalley.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Millard Fillmore followed two tracks along a windrow of ancient trees, past the bluish-green patches of horehound, and across a sandy bank. They were as clear to him as if someone had painted orange arrows on the ground. One man was limping. The other was a larger man with a purposeful step, heavy on the heel. These were Willie Taft’s steps. He’d seen the same tracks many times before, followed them across the border.

  He’d parked on the edge of the highway and walked until he picked up the tracks again. Where the footprints went down into the wash and crossed the sandy flat, he stopped. There was a third set of tracks, a troubling set. They were slight, nearly invisible, made by someone patient who had waited and watched.

  It was late afternoon when he entered the thicket where he’d wait until dark to proceed. He reached into his pocket for a small metal canister, then squatted on his heels. He removed the soggy toothpick from his mouth, its blond wood frayed along the margins, and carefully put it back into the canister before extracting a new one, then he waited, surveying the many slight imprints in the hardened mud in front of him and watching the sky.

  After the sun was down below the dark mass of the western Santa Lucia, Millard rose in the brown dusk. He crept up out of the wash onto the bank where he could see a collection of broken-down buildings in the distance. He saw an old man open his door, come out onto the landing, then go back inside.

  Another half hour and it was dark. In the downvalley distance, a stormy darkness grew like a great sourceless vacuum of sounds and light. Millard could feel it sliding and rolling in thick sheets in his direction. It would rain soon, and he needed to hurry. He climbed the dirt path to the group of buildings on the hill. Pausing under the weeping canopy of a Peruvian pepper, he bent to pick up its shriveled pink fruit. He crushed the spicy bead between his fingers and breathed in deeply. He watched the trailer for ten more minutes before creeping through the darkness toward it. At the bottom of the steps to the trailer’s door, he froze.

  “Something didn’t seem right. I didn’t see you leave the trailer, though,” Millard said without turning around.