Rise of the Scorpion

by Scott McCord

  Emily straightens up and turns back to the people. She’s wide-eyed and starting to bubble. “It smells awesome,” she proclaims.

  Victoria laughs and shakes her head. “This is wonderful,” she says, raising her hands to examine her fingers. “I feel my fingertips.” She bounces on her toes. “I can feel my fingertips again!”

  Shoulders sag in exhausted relief, and fear washes out of almost every expression. Nervous hope settles in. Slate took a chance, and my girls stepped up to save us all.

  “Mim,” one of the pilgrims calls, “does that count as one trip or two?”

  I hold up a single finger. “Just one.”

  “Me and Sarah Grace next then,” the pilgrim exclaims, pushing his way to the front with a young woman in tow. I take them across and another couple after that, before stopping to wait on the far side for ferrymen to escort the rest.

  The last leg of the journey is a short one…or maybe the strong air makes it seem that way. Pilgrims chat among themselves as we travel, making plans and sharing wishes for their new lives. The mood is light as hopes and dreams bob around the travelers like a hot game of pepper.

  I’m taken. I feel good. I feel good about what is happening, but the ferrymen seem cold to it all. They march along like stone soldiers with no more orders to give, no stumbling pilgrims to reach for, and no frightened young girls to encourage. Everyone is safe. The job is done, leaving nothing to say and nothing to do. New Hope isn’t a fresh start for these vacant men—it’s just another trip, the last trip, a turn of the wheel, setting them back to the beginning. I glance over at Slate, but he’s thinking of something else.

  23

  Mim

  We’re greeted at the tree-line with laughter and squeals of joy as our party is reunited with friends they haven’t seen in weeks. Waterskins are passed around, hugs exchanged, and we’re ushered along a path to a great clearing where more people are waiting to throw arms around the new arrivals. So many excited voices filled with welcome swirl inside the trees, even the ferrymen are swept up. Dusk won’t be long now, so I step back for a quick look around before it’s too dark to see where I am.

  A foundation for some sort of meeting house is laid out to my right. Its log walls have already risen to shoulder-height. Stakes with small strips of cloth, mark areas for future construction, and a large swath of ground is tilled up ready for seed. The priests of Community say the futile attempt to tame the earth instead of waiting for God to provide was instrumental in the fall of man. But the dark smell of upturned soil and the crisp contrast it provides to the grassy field, is beautiful to me in spite of what God thinks. The word farm comes to mind, I whisper it to myself, and it tastes good on my lips.

  Feral goats gripe bitterly from a reinforced corral across from the meeting-house-to-be. They’re ornery and unwilling now, but they’ll be grandparents to a domesticated herd that will share milk without complaint.

  Happiness bubbles among the pilgrims like a chuckling stream, and fire pits wait with their kindling for the sun to finally set. When it does, sparks are nurtured to life and flames spring into a white, yellow, and sometimes blue dance. Torches are lit and carcasses are added to spits. Broken shadows, the smell of meat, and the indistinct voices of fifty conversations whir in my brain until I’m sure this is only a dream. My head spins, and for a moment, I don’t feel like myself. Familiar faces under the flicker of firelight have no names…except…yes…I think that’s Tessa…she’s having a baby…and the guy holding her hand…Noah.

  “So, is New Hope everything you thought?”

  I jerk at the unexpected voice.

  Slate frowns. “You’re awfully edgy.”

  “I don’t like people sneaking up on me.” Slate frowns again. “Do you ever smile?” I ask.

  “Only when it has to be done.”

  “Are you good at that—doing what has to be done?”

  He smirks, just short of a grin. “I’m very good. That’s why I’m one of Cassandra’s ferrymen and not a pilgrim.” He takes a deep breath, and we watch the people mingle. A man cuts into the meat, examines inside, and adds more wood to the fire.

  “So, is it everything you expected?” he asks again.

  “I don’t understand how they’ve done all this in such a short time.”

  “Well, the first trip was over six weeks ago and—”

  “No, not six,” I interrupt, “it’s only been four.”

  “You’ve been training with Jack—conditioning. Everybody loses time when they’re learning. It’s coming up on seven weeks since we landed the first pilgrims.” He stops to let the weight of what he’s saying sink in. “I know. It’s kind of freaky.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I mutter.

  Grease drips off roasting meat and fire flames up to consume it. The brief flash is perfectly timed to light a shallow smile falling away from Slate’s face.

  “Believe what you like. It doesn’t change anything. Ask your dad, or Jack when you get home.”

  The conversation dies. I can’t believe I’ve lost so many days

  “Actually,” he starts again, “these folks are behind schedule. Cassandra wanted everyone crossed faster than usual because of the whole…incident, and we were so busy conditioning pilgrims, there wasn’t time for a tool-run. This settlement went weeks without a single axe.” He sighs. “But they’re outfitted now, and they seem to be making up ground. They’re hard workers.”

  “What’s a tool-run?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You said, tool-run. What is that?”

  He scratches his head and sniffs. “Did I say that? I don’t think I did.” He shifts his weight to one leg. “Jonathan will have us scouting the island tomorrow, so we better grab something to eat and catch some shut-eye…no rest for the weary.”

  He starts to move away, but I catch him by the wrist. “What’s a tool-run?” I snarl.

  Slate can easily break away, but he doesn’t. He turns to me. Shadows dance over his face.

  “I’m sure your dad will tell you anyway.” He takes a heavy breath. “When we need things, things we can’t make ourselves…we do a little mid-night shopping.”

  “In Community?”

  He nods. “A lot of people—especially builders in the forward groups—keep pilfered tools in their tents. It takes longer to collect what we need from individuals, but no one gets in trouble when a tool turns up missing. There’s no backlash against the groups for items already out of the system.”

  “You sneak into people’s homes…while they’re asleep?”

  He nods again. “If we can’t find what we need or enough of it, we go to the storage wagons in Community Center.”

  “Are you kidding?” I hiss, squeezing down on his wrist. “What if you’re seen?”

  “We have a couple of black and crimson uniforms. They’re not perfect, but they’re okay in the dark.”

  “You impersonate Scorpions? Are you an idiot?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “And what if someone wakes up while you’re in their tent?” It’s an accusation more than a question, and Slate gets every bit of my meaning. He twists out of my grasp.

  “Look around, Mim. This is my purpose. I’m part of something better than me, and the salvation of the world rests in this work. These people are alive and free, and if that was all, it would be enough to justify whatever I do…but it’s not…the pilgrims around you are the parents of humanity, and my sacrifice toward that end more than covers any sin you’re accusing me of.”

  He steps back and glares, but my expression does not yield.

  “A love-tap,” he says.

  My face scrunches into a question. “What?”

  “If someone wakes up while I’m in their tent, I give them a love-tap on top of the head to help them get back to sleep…quickly.”

  “What about women and children?”

  Slate shrugs. “Everybody needs love. Like I said, I’m very good at doing what has to be done.” His lips
twist up, but not into a smile. He turns and strolls off into the shadows, leaving me in a swirl of questions.

  “Mim, Mim, dinner is ready. Come sit with me and Emily. Tessa is huge!”

  Victoria catches me by the arm and walks me through the dinner line, chatting the whole way. I’m given a plate and doled more meat than I’ve seen in…months? I find a place on the ground and sit, feigning polite attention as the pregnant woman I met weeks ago tells stories about the changes in her body. The other women listen intently…Ellie would love this. The thought of my friend lifts my spirit, and I wonder if she and Gas are expecting yet…if she’s showing as much as Tessa is.

  Slate aggravated the crap out of me earlier, but now on a full stomach, it seems I overreacted. My allegiance to Community must run deeper than I thought, making me bristle involuntarily at the idea of anyone stealing from Group 14. I have to get over that.

  The firelight smolders, all but a few of the torches have died away, and Tessa is talking about her ankles. I set my plate to the side and recline to a more comfortable posture. This is a good end to a good day. A yawn stretches down my face, but I’m too tired to cover it. Ellie and Gas belong here—building houses and boring conversations are perfect for them. I’ll cross them soon…so it doesn’t hurt the baby…there is a lot to do. My eyes drop shut, too heavy to lift again.

  Pressure…on my leg…not enough to pull me from sleep. I’m vaguely aware of my hand moving for my knife when something jabs me in the shoulder. I wake. A couple of blankets have been tossed on me in the night. One is spread over my arms and chest, but the other has worked its way around my ankles, tangling my legs. I won’t be able to stand quickly, so I pretend to sleep as my fingers curl around the grip of my blade. My eyes slide open just enough to see out from under the lids.

  The night sky is filled with stars, and a faceless silhouette stands directly over me with a weapon in hand. Under the blanket, the knife slips from its sheathe as I work quietly to free my ankles. The dark figure waits a moment and then delivers another sharp jab with a bow-tip.

  “Gracious, girl, you sleep like a log these days,” Jonathan whispers.

  “I’m awake,” I answer, trying to sound lucid.

  “Shhhh. Here, I got you a pack.” He drops something out of the darkness, but I can’t free my arms in time to catch it. It lands on my stomach with a thud.

  “Gee, thanks,” I groan. “What’s this for?”

  “Keep it down,” he hisses. “Grab your bow, and let’s get out of here before you wake the whole camp. I’ll meet you at the latrine. You have one minute, so get moving.”

  He gives no further explanation before disappearing around the sleeping tents. I wrestle out from under the blankets and shove Jonathan’s pack to the side. From the weight of it, he expects to be gone more than a day or two. I push to my feet and collect my gear. Whatever this is, I’m glad he wants to meet at the latrine first.

  24

  Mim

  We walk without talking until dawn sparkles at the tree-tops. Jonathan sets a brutal pace, but I’d lick his feet before I’d complain or let him get away from me. Still, I’m relieved when he stops to rest. Johnathan lets his pack slide to the ground and sits by a stream that ignores us both as it bounces happily over pebbles and sand. He looks at me and I wait for him to speak.

  “What’s done is done, Mim, and I can’t undo it.”

  Shallow water babbles around smooth stones. I look down into its tiny swirls and eddies.

  “I know,” I say.

  He watches me not looking at him. “The other night with Cassandra, I didn’t tell you the truth, at least not all of it.” I keep my eyes on the water. “Will’s grandfather trained me to scout. He was good, very good, so brave in some ways, but timid…reserved in others. I gave him a knife once, as kind of a thank you gift for teaching me. I found it on a survey, lying on the floor of a rotted out cabin. It was a beautiful blade—heavy and sharp—but way outside of regulation. He was afraid of getting caught with it.” Jonathan chuckles to himself. “Such a great knife, and he only used it to shave.” He shakes his head and smiles.

  I glance up, but Jonathan is no longer looking at me as he talks. He stares upstream, like he’s waiting for the water to bring memories rippling back across his brain. They seem to be coming one at a time.

  “I wonder whatever happened to that knife,” he muses to himself.

  “Will has it,” I say.

  The side of Jonathan’s face curls to an almost smile. “Good,” he says and takes a deep breath to collect a few more words. “Will’s grandfather trained me, but he only took Will’s dad out a few times. Not that Will’s dad couldn’t do it, but I was a natural and he wasn’t…or maybe that’s just how I remember it. Anyway, I learned to survey, and Will’s dad learned to build. The old man stopped scouting to help his son. There were some hard feelings after that, and when Will’s grandfather got culled, it got worse.”

  I look at Jonathan still staring upstream.

  “I should have left it alone, but when it came time to claim my protégés, I took Will…not as a slight, but because I knew scouting was in his blood. Will’s dad and I argued a lot. He wanted me to wash Will out, but I wouldn’t do it. He got so angry and unreasonable, we nearly came to blows once. I thought he’d get over it when he realized how much good Will could do as a surveyor, but he was just…stuck.”

  I watch Jonathan telling his tale. There may be a tear in the crook of his eye, but he turns and drops his head before I can be sure.

  “I lied to you, Mim, when I said I sought an audience after seeing the lightning strike and the smoke. I did not go willingly, I was dragged out of my tent by the ankles and hauled before The Body to meet charges of heresy. They didn’t listen, of course, and the rest you know.” He shakes his head. “Will’s dad is the only one I told about the smoke that day.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “Yes, I do. And to be honest, sometimes I still think about taking justice in the middle of the night. He cost me everything. He cost me my daughter.” Jonathan looks up and tries to smile. “It took Cassandra a long time to convince me I had more left than revenge—to make me believe I was important to the world. Shoot, I spent most of my early days with the Utugi under guard or tied to a tree.”

  “No way they keep you unless you let them.”

  “I guess, but there’s more than one way to bind a man.” He sighs. “I’ve helped a lot of people, cut them off the culling post and ferried them where they have a chance…where there is real hope for something better than being used up and thrown away at the whim of inbred, twisted theocrats.”

  He pauses for his next words.

  “I couldn’t go back for you—not right away, not without raising suspicion and risking everything the Utugi are doing. I thought it was best to wait and, before I knew it, a few years slid by and you were connected to a life without me. You were doing so well with your dangerball and your scouting. You seemed…safe. I told myself you were okay for a while, that there was time for you to enjoy your life a little longer before...changing everything. It got harder and harder, and then I’d waited too long.”

  He clears his throat and looks back upstream. “I’m not making excuses, and I don’t need forgiveness—what I’ve done, I’ve done—but I am sorry…so very sorry. The terrible thing is, if I could go back and do things different, I’m not sure I would…and I’m sorriest of all for that. I’m a guilty man, Mim.” He pauses for his next thought. “It doesn’t make much difference now, but I was always coming for you. I would never leave you to Community, not to The Body.”

  “You’ve been there, haven’t you? Watching me, I mean.”

  “As much as I could.”

  “Where?

  “Sometimes in the woods while you were scouting…sometimes in the arena while you were playing.”

  “So you have seen me play.”

  He nods.

  “What did you think?”

  “I think…
you’re great.”

  Life is hard and unfair, but there are reasons for everything, and I understand my father’s. I might have done things the same way in his place. A tinge of empathy catches me off-guard, and I feel like his daughter for the first time since his resurrection. There are no words for the feeling. I doubt it even shows on my face. My father doesn’t need me to respond, but he gives me a moment anyway.

  “Great?”

  He nods.

  “Well, okay then.”

  “Okay then,” he repeats, reaching for his pack. “Let’s go.”

  For two days we head west with no conversation fanning the flames of reconciliation. My father sets a brisk pace, and I’m surprised at the effort I have to make to keep up. Without losing a step, he pulls an arrow several times along the way to strike down small game for the evening supper, but by the time the animals are cleaned and cooked, we’re both too exhausted to talk. One of Mary’s knockout concoctions couldn’t put me to sleep any faster than a belly full of Dad’s rabbit. I’m growing fond of my father again, even though he makes very little effort toward me. For better or worse, he’s done raising me, and from one adult to another, he has said all he has to say. His apology is his apology and it will never come again unless I ask for it. I’m not that low.

  §

  Day three—blindly trailing behind Jonathan is beyond tiresome. My patience is done, wound down to zero, when I see something familiar.

  “Stop!”

  Dad halts in his tracks and turns around.

  I point to the carving…a Slitter sign cut deep into a tree, similar to ones I’ve seen in the Ark. “What’s that?”

  “It means we’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “At the western edge of the island.” He walks over and puts his hand on the carved tree. “I cut this weeks ago, right at the border, where the good air ends and the Outside begins.” He spits, and without any further explanation, moves another thirty feet west before stopping to peer into the forest beyond. I sidle up next to him. “When I marked that tree, it was two steps over the Edge…and now it’s twelve paces behind where we are now. Do you know what that means, Mim?”