by Tom Abrahams
She’d lost a lot of blood. That contributed to her exhaustion, she was sure. But there was no rest for the weary. They had miles to go before it got dark again. So she pressed forward.
Scavenging what she could from the dead men in the barn, Lou slung an overstuffed pack and a pair of fully loaded rifles from the barn and went back to the road. David was sitting in the dirt, feeding a horse weeds from his palm. He was smiling.
“C’mon,” she called out to him. “Let’s gear up and head out, dude. We’re behind schedule.”
CHAPTER 20
APRIL 19, 2054, NOON
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
DALBY SPRINGS, TEXAS
Andrea’s jaw clenched. A wave of anger surged through her as rivulets of sweat dripped from her face. She balled her hands into fists.
“We’re going to leave her,” said Warner. “Cut her free, Blessing.”
Andrea strained against her binds. The chains clanged. She spat when she snapped at her captors. “You can’t do this,” she said. “You can’t leave her.”
Warner raised an eyebrow and glanced back at her. He said nothing, turned, and jutted his chin toward the new mother. “Take the kid,” he said to Blessing. “Cut her free.”
The sun was high overhead. It beat down on the chain gang as they stood in the middle of the highway.
The new mother refused to let go of the child at first. She held the baby tight to her chest. Her fingers wrapped the back of her head, underneath her fleshy thighs.
Even a gun to her temple wasn’t enough to make her let go of the baby, so Blessing pressed the barrel against the forehead of the woman next to her.
Warner put his hands on his hips and winked. “I’d go ahead and do what I asked. Every minute that passes and you don’t, we’re gonna kill another one of your lady friends. Then we’ll start shooting other children. Even your older one. You might be the last one standing. Then we’ll shoot you.”
She wavered but tightened her grip. Her chin quivered. Her shoulders shuddered.
“Then all of this was for nothing,” said Warner. “’Cause you could hand over the baby now and avoid everyone else getting plugged.”
She kissed the baby on the forehead and offered it to Blessing. He shook his head and motioned to the woman at whom he’d been aiming his pistol.
The woman took the child and cradled it, mouthing her apologies to the new mother, who now had her trembling hands over her mouth, suppressing her sobs. Her eyes were wide with pain. Her legs were bloody and her chest heaved.
Blessing began his work on her binds while Warner stalked the chain gang like an officer inspecting his troops. His boots scraped along the asphalt. There was a hitch in his walk, a limp still evident from the blow Andrea had struck in the jail.
“We’re way behind schedule, ladies,” he said. “What should have taken us seven hours has taken us ten. At this rate, we’re never going to reach Fort Worth. Or if we do, a good half of you will be carrying babies in your arms instead of your bellies.”
The women were all crying now, as if the new mother’s sobs were infectious. Andrea suppressed her sadness underneath the building rage, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to release. Her narrow gaze was locked on Warner as he moved past her and continued babbling another soliloquy. She was convinced the man was a sadist, not just because of his violence, but because of his insistence in making other people listen to him speak.
“We need to move faster,” he said. “We have places to be and people to see. I don’t think you understand the urgency of this, the necessity of being on time.”
He reached the end of the chain gang and paused. His arms were behind his back, one hand holding onto the opposite wrist. Warner lifted his chin and spun on his boot heels, the leather grinding against the asphalt, and started back along the line.
“There is a weak link,” he said. “We have to get rid of it.”
The new mother wailed through her cupped hands. Saliva seeped through her fingers, and sticky threads of it hung from her chin. It was the most pitiful and gut-wrenching thing Andrea had ever seen. And that was saying something.
“So,” Warner dragged out the word for effect and took a long stride to match it, “we’re providing incentive for the rest of you to move with purpose. That’s what this is. At its core, it’s an incentive.”
“You can’t do this,” Andrea said over the wails of the other women and the whimpers of the children. “You can’t leave her here. She’ll die. There’s no water, no food, nowhere to sleep. You’re killing her.”
Warner took two steps toward Andrea and leaned in with a hardened expression. His eyes were obsidian pools that absorbed light. Black holes.
She didn’t flinch. “You’re killing her,” she repeated, the venom oozing as she spoke.
“She’s killing herself,” Warner said. He jabbed a finger at her. “And I heard enough outta you.”
“The children are slower than the adults,” said Andrea. “The fastest child can’t keep up with the slowest women. You’re being cruel.”
Warner lowered his hand and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His expression softened, his eyes remaining black holes, sucking in the light around them. Adjusting the cap on his head, he took a deep breath and held it.
“I’m being practical,” said Warner. A grin twitched. “Maybe this will be an incentive for the kids too.”
Andrea lunged at him, but she couldn’t reach him. Her chain snapped taut. Then she turned on the chain gang. “Are none of you going to stop him?” she cried. “Are you just going to sit there and take this? You’re going to let them take our children from us and lead us to slaughter? Or worse?”
The other women averted their eyes, their shoulders hunched with despair. Tears rolled down their cheeks. They wrung their hands or held their children or rubbed their bellies. None of them said anything.
Warner scanned the chain gang. He snorted a laugh and took a step close enough to Andrea that she could smell his sweat and his hot, fetid breath. She wrinkled her nose as he moved to within inches of her.
“Looks like you’re on an island, chickadee,” he whispered. “Might be best you keep your musings to yourself.”
Andrea drew a flood of saliva into her mouth and spat, hitting Warner in his left eye. He flinched and stepped back. His grin broadened and he wiped the spit with his thumb and walked away.
“Let’s move,” he said to Blessing.
The new mother was free of her binds. She was off the road, in the dirt next to a wiry shrub. She was on her knees, hands out in front of her clasped in prayer. Her body trembled.
Blessing held the woman’s older child by the hand, another woman held the baby, and the chain gang began to move. They shuffled slowly away from the woman.
Warner stepped away from the line and handed the woman a canteen and some rations.
Andrea watched this and considered stopping. She could sit in the road and refuse to move. Then they couldn’t leave the woman behind.
Yet that wouldn’t do any good. They’d hurt her or Javier. They’d leave her to die. There was no point in it. She had to keep walking. Keep walking.
Andrea glanced at the woman in the dirt, the new mother who’d never know her child. “Walk,” she called out to her. “Walk with us. Keep walking with us.”
A murmur rippled through the chain gang, as if nobody had even considered this as a possibility. There was nothing to keep the woman from walking alongside them. They could help her. She could keep up.
Craning her neck to see behind her, Andrea called again. This time louder and with more command. “Get up! Walk with us.”
The woman stood, collecting the canteen and the package of food. She scrambled from the dirt and onto the road. Stumbling awkwardly, she followed the chain gang.
Warner said nothing at first. He marched ahead, leading the gang toward their destination. Then he hung back, trailing the caravan of women and children, occasionally glancing back at th
e new mother struggling to keep pace.
After an hour, Warner pulled even with Andrea. He pulled off his cap and raked his fingers through his greasy hair. The sound of his fingers scratching his scalp made Andrea shudder. He wiped his brow and replaced the cap.
Andrea kept her eyes forward, watching him in her peripheral vision but not giving him the satisfaction of thinking she paid him any attention. She braced for another diatribe. Instead he offered seven words.
“You only made it worse for her,” he said.
Andrea clopped forward. Her ankles raw, every step burning against the blisters that had formed, burst, and formed again, she kept moving. The new mother was staggering now. She was fifty yards behind them and losing ground.
Andrea wanted to run back and help the woman along. She flexed her hands in and out and shook them at her sides. Her exhaustion gave way to anxiety when Warner tipped his cap to her and stopped walking.
He stood in the middle of the road, staring at her as the chain gang kept its pace. Andrea kept checking at decreasing intervals. She tripped once, but the woman behind her caught her arm before she fell.
Still, Andrea didn’t want to take her eyes from Warner. Her stomach twisted. Her throat tightened. She shortened her steps to a shuffle so she could keep pace and her balance.
Warner stood in the road, unmoving, growing smaller the farther Andrea got from him. He stared at her. Even at a distance she could feel it, the tractor beam of mass in his eyes.
Then he turned and slowly walked, sauntered really, toward the new mother, who was barely able to stand. She appeared drunk on the road, woozily moving from one side to the other.
Andrea was far enough away now that she couldn’t see. She couldn’t turn her neck far enough to tell what was happening. She didn’t need to see it. Her gut, her roiling gut, told her what was coming next. Andrea didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to tell herself Warner would give her more water and tell her to rest. She hoped he’d launch into another speech that he gave as if it held some philosophical meaning, when in reality it was dime-store nonsense.
The pop that cracked through the air, its echo that hung behind them and above them and around them, told her Warner hadn’t helped her. He hadn’t offered water or advice or anything other than a bullet.
Andrea’s body shuddered with the pop. She wanted to puke, but there was nothing left. A ripple of muffled cries worked its way through the chain gang. They all knew what had happened.
They all knew there were two orphans now traveling with them. Andrea steeled herself, tightened her grip on Javier’s hand, and told herself it was for the best. If they were all going to die or be slaves to a tribe, a quick shot to the head might be the most merciful thing for which any of them could hope. Warner did her a favor.
Andrea shook the thought from her mind and chastised herself for having thought it. This wasn’t the end. She would not be a slave. Nobody would take her children from her. Andrea convinced herself she would find a way out. One way or the other, she would escape, she would free the others, and she would kill Warner.
CHAPTER 21
APRIL 19, 2054, 3:00 PM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Sally couldn’t sit still. She paced restlessly, rubbing her hands together. A glaze of sweat covered her face, her bare shoulders, her neck.
Gladys sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. Her flat expression was unchanged from the last half hour of the session with Sally.
“You already know all of this,” said Sally. “Why do I need to tell you? Why me? You’ve said repeatedly I’m not special, that you’ve done this before. I’m sure other unremarkable people have shared with you everything. Ev-er-y-thing.”
“They have,” Gladys conceded.
Sally stopped pacing, frozen in place by the surprisingly candid response. She motioned toward Gladys with her hands. “See? You admit it. So we’re done. Can I get a cigarette?” Her eyes flitted across the room. She started to pace again.
“I don’t have any,” Gladys said. “And I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I didn’t. I think I need to start.”
Gladys’s expression softened, and the faintest hint of a smile formed at the edges of her lips. It flashed and disappeared. “Have a seat. It may be that I know the origin of things, the progression of them. But I need to hear them from your perspective. More importantly, you need to hear it. You need to hear yourself say it aloud.”
Sally plopped into the armchair she’d claimed as her own on that first night and lolled her head back dramatically. She rolled her eyes and slapped her hands on the plush fabric arms of the chair.
“How did you find out about the railroad?”
Sally rapped her fingers on the chair. “When is my next job going to get here?” she asked. “Any update?”
“They’re here when they’re here,” said Gladys. “How did you find out about the railroad?”
Sally lowered an ear toward her shoulder until her neck popped; then she did the other side. “A friend of a friend,” she said. “I was looking for work. For a place to stay. I got approached. I’d been hassled a lot by the government, and this was my chance to get back at them.”
“So you were angry?”
Sally exhaled audibly and nodded. “Yes. I mean, who isn’t angry? This world sucks. I was a kid when the Scourge happened. I don’t really even remember it that well. I remember a lot of crying, a lot of moving around, a lot of hunger.”
“You lost your home?”
“I don’t know if we lost it or it was taken from us. It’s blurry and I don’t really like to think about it. My father and older brother died. It was me and my mom.”
“What happened to her?”
“What happened to a lot of women after the Scourge?” Sally asked. “She worked. She did what she could to provide. But there was no economy, not for years. And once it got going again, she was worn out. I found her in bed.”
“She died,” said Gladys. “And you found her.”
“She was a drunk. Took pills too. So I was on my own. Then the drought takes hold and look where we are.”
“You’re from Atlanta?”
Sally shook her head. “Florida. Orlando. We ended up here.”
“Why were you recruited for the railroad?”
Sally shrugged. She plucked at her shirt and fanned herself with it. “It’s hot in here,” she said. “Is it hot in here? Are you hot?”
Gladys shook her head. She crossed her legs at the ankles and pressed the wrinkles from her long skirt.
“I think they recruited me because I was good at sneaking around.”
“How so?” Gladys pointed at the cluttered coffee table. “There’s a glass of water if you’re thirsty.”
Sally scooted to the edge of the wide seat and took the glass. She gulped it like a child, tendrils of water leaking from the sides of the glass. The glass was empty in a matter of seconds, but Sally kept it in her hands. Leaning back in the seat, her toes touching the floor en pointe, she rubbed the glass with her thumbs like it was a totem. “I was good at finding things that belonged to other people, and taking them for myself or others.”
“You were a thief.”
Sally frowned. She glanced at Gladys then focused on the glass in her hands. “I liked to think of myself as Robin Hood. You know the old story about the guy who took from the rich and gave to the poor?”
Gladys blinked but remained silent. She uncrossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, her silence prodding Sally for more.
“Yes,” Sally acknowledged with an eye roll. “I was a thief. But I took from people who had more than enough, and I shared it with people who had little.”
“How did the railroad find out?”
“I took from someone with the railroad,” she said. “I got caught. Instead of ratting me out to the government, I was offered a job.”
Gladys raised an eyebrow. “Conductor.”
&n
bsp; Sally nodded. She slid a finger inside her shirt collar and tugged it, stretching it along her neck.
“Then what?” Gladys prompted.
“I didn’t want the job, but I didn’t have a choice. And to be honest, it was a pretty sweet deal. They gave me a place to stay, they fed me, and I was doing something good with my sneakiness.”
Gladys tilted her head to one side. “Something good,” she said. It was both a statement and a question.
“I knew about the quotas,” said Sally. “That women couldn’t have more than one kid, and if they did, the government took the kid from her. That wasn’t right. The railroad told me I could do good.”
“And you did good,” said Gladys. Again, a statement rolled into a question.
Sally shrugged. “I guess. They told me I was one of their best. They’d recruited a lot of people from Texas, but said I was as good as any of them.”
Gladys put her elbow on the arm of her chair and set her chin in her hand. “Why?”
“Why was I good?”
“Why Texas?”
“Because Texas was full of people doing weird things,” said Sally. “They’ve got the wall, so people were always trying to move across it one way or the other. There were different smugglers. The Cartel, I think. Then there were the canyon people.”
“The Dwellers.”
Sally snapped her fingers and pointed at Gladys. “Yeah, them. Plus there were a bunch of gangs. It seemed like ever since the Scourge, people in Texas were forced to run or hide from something. Took a generation, but they got good at it. So the railroad made friends down there. Hired people away.”
“But you were as good as them,” said Gladys. “Then what happened?”
Sally inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her pursed lips. She rubbed the glass with her thumbs. “I think I saved more than five hundred women and their babies. Five hundred. I calculated that’s a thousand people now. At least. Then if they have kids and they have kids, that’s tens of thousands of people I saved.”
