by Bobby Adair
Jingo patted the seat beside him, urging her to join him.
Kirby looked around the room at the dark shadows beyond the fire, as if the invitation needed more thought than it deserved. She stretched, leaned over, and groaned like an old woman.
Jingo didn’t comment. He didn’t want to tell her that the pain and stiffness would only get worse. Over time, the spore sank its roots into the joints and made movement painful. He longed for the ancient days when aspirins and anti-inflammatory drugs were available in nearly every store.
Kirby finally surrendered to her insomnia, climbed out from under her blanket, and came to sit beside Jingo.
She stared at the embers as Jingo asked, “Have you decided what you’ll do?”
“About?”
“Going to Brighton.”
Kirby gave Jingo a cross stare. “I’ve never led anyone to believe the matter was under consideration. I’m not going there.”
“Beck seems to think you are.”
“He nags me constantly about it,” said Kirby. “But I have no desire to fight in another unending war.”
“Is that what you think it will be?” Jingo asked.
Kirby’s expression turned to disappointment. “In three centuries of life, have you seen anything other than death, people butchering people? I’ve been on this earth for thirty-five years, and it’s all I’ve seen.”
“If I told you conflict has always been a part of human history, would that make you more or less likely to go to Brighton?”
Kirby chuckled as she frowned. “I don’t know much about ancient times, but I’ve been told things by people who read ancient histories. Unfortunately, my parents weren’t educated, so I wasn’t.”
“Yours is a common story in human history,” Jingo told her.
Kirby continued, as though Jingo had said nothing at all. “If you’re telling me that men and women have killed throughout history, going back however many thousands of years, then I say to you, maybe it’s better if we all die. Maybe when our kind is gone, the suffering will disappear.”
“All creatures suffer,” said Jingo. “Men and women are just like the rest. The only difference is that we are intelligent enough to believe that we shouldn’t.”
“Maybe you have a darker view of humanity than I do,” Kirby guessed as she took a deeper look into Jingo’s eyes.
“There was a time when I did,” said Jingo. “Through the years, though, I’ve come to believe that a truth has always been in front of me. It is a truth that gives me hope when I lose faith in our species.”
“What is that?”
“It will be longwinded to explain.”
“Perhaps it will put me to sleep.” Kirby smiled. It was the first real smile Jingo had seen on her face.
Jingo took a moment to find his starting place, and then said, “People have warred with one another since the first human figured out how to pick up a rock and use it as a weapon. From that day, through nearly all the days since, humans found better and better ways to kill one another. In what everyone here calls the ancient times, in the days in which I grew up, we’d build tools and machines to kill on an unimaginable scale. People died by the million in our wars.”
“Millions were killed?” Kirby asked. “That can’t be true.” Then Kirby softened. She must’ve seen the size of the ancient cities, or heard about them. There were too many great cities spread over the globe, all turning to rubble, for her not to have some kind of knowledge. “Were there really that many people then? Did your wars truly kill millions?”
“Do you know your numbers?” Jingo asked.
Kirby nodded with a scowl, offended to be asked the question. “I can’t read, but that doesn’t make me stupid.”
“My apologies.”
Kirby’s face relaxed.
“More than a million died,” Jingo confirmed, getting back on topic. “Tens of millions, in some wars. But we could have killed so many more. We reached a time when our bombs were so terrible that several nations possessed the power to kill every living thing on the planet—children, their parents, their pets, every blade of grass in the yard, every tree that lined their streets. But we never used that power. In a way, as we all came to realize what power we wielded, the worst of the wars grew farther and farther in our past, and when war did come, it killed a smaller proportion of the living people.”
“Through all of these wars, life for most humans got better. Humanity built great cities. Most people lived long lives, and never had to raise a weapon for their country. Many never saw violence or had to fight for their lives. Most didn’t starve. Most were educated. People were scientists and artists and explorers.” Jingo pointed up. “We sent men to the moon in a rocket. We built a station in space, a colony like a very small moon. People lived and worked there. People seldom got sick. They didn’t die needlessly. We had doctors to cure most illnesses. When someone died before they’d aged eighty years, people were surprised.”
Kirby laughed like that was the funniest joke she’d heard in a long time. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” Jingo confirmed. “Some people lived to be a hundred. Of course, this was before the spore made the infected people immortal.”
“Before my people came to this land,” said Kirby, “the oldest person I’d ever heard of was fifty-seven.”
“I know the strain of spore affects people differently where you came from. But do you see my point about war?”
Kirby glared at Jingo as if she were being duped.
“War is an inescapable part of who we are, but it is not all we are. The pursuit of knowledge and the application of that knowledge makes better lives for people. That is the better part of humanity. That is what you can help with, should you go to Brighton with Beck.”
“But you’ve lived your life alone in your Ancient City,” argued Kirby, “avoiding the people in Brighton, even though you could have helped them with your knowledge.” She let that hang in the air for a moment before she added, “Yet, you did not.”
“No,” Jingo confessed. “Perhaps there was a time or two over the centuries when I might have been welcomed by the people of Brighton, but it was too much of a risk.”
“Why did you not go to them when they first settled?”
“Times were violent back then,” said Jingo. “Had I approached Brighton’s founders in those days, I’d have been killed and my body burned. But it would’ve been impossible to go to them at that time, anyhow.”
“Why?” asked Kirby.
“I didn’t become aware of Brighton until some sixty or seventy years after the fall. By then, I’d taken to thinking that I was the last civilized man on earth. Then, one day, I spied a man, a normal, healthy human in the Ancient City. He came there scavenging for what he could to bring back to Brighton. He was a brave man. He had to be. The city was teeming with twisted men who would have killed him, had they found him.”
“I came to know Ted after I helped him escape a mob of demons that thought they had him trapped. Ted and I became friends, and whenever he came to the Ancient City to scavenge, he would visit with me. He brought me news of Brighton. And like Ted, there were others through the years, always someone. Eventually, I took on students like Ivory. His uncle used to bring him to the Ancient City to meet with me.”
“My hope was that I could influence Brighton from afar, but that didn’t work. Brighton was devolving intellectually. The people were so busy surviving, growing crops, hunting for food, building their fortifications, and fighting the twisted men that they had little time for education. Five thousand years of human history and knowledge disappeared in a few generations. People had no time to read. They had no time for mathematics. All modern knowledge was based on those two foundational skills. It all disappeared, and superstition grew. Hatred of anyone with the spore infect
ion festered. Their perversion of a religion justified their choice to burn anyone they suspected of being infected.”
“And you’re going back there?” Kirby asked incredulously. The look of disbelief remained on her face until she came to a new realization. “You believe Beck can change Brighton with his guns.”
“Maybe he can,” said Jingo. “In all these centuries, this might be Brighton’s best chance. The old leadership is dead. With so much of the militia and cavalry gone, Beck, along with his guns, may win the day. He may be able to put Brighton on the right path. If so, then I should be there to guide them. As you know, my knowledge of the ancient world is vast, but my knowledge of this world is just what I’ve seen in the Ancient City and what I know of the areas nearby. You know a great deal about life on the other side of the ocean. You can help us.”
“No,” said Kirby. “I told Beck no, and I tell you no. I appreciate you asking me, but I won’t do it. I can’t go to another war. It is as I’ve said. Maybe with enough time, my optimism will return the way yours has. But you’ve had three centuries after seeing everyone you love die to get where you are now. My people just died. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of death. I don’t have the will for it anymore.”
“Remember where we are, then,” said Jingo. “I’ll draw you a map. Come to us when you are ready. I’ll be in Brighton, trying to bring the light back to the world.”
“All I can give you is my hope that you succeed,” said Kirby.
Chapter 38: Fitz
Fitz looked out over the vast crowd of people that had gathered in the square. For the first time, she knew, and didn’t have to speculate, what it felt like to be one of the Elders. Behind her were three chairs: Blackthorn’s, Beck’s, and Winthrop’s. Two of those leaders were presumed dead, and she’d do whatever she could to prevent the third from walking through the Brighton gates again.
People filled the square, lingering on the edges, watching from the rooftops, or hanging from windows, vying for the best spots to watch. Where the census-takers had once stood, her Strong Women now lined up in a row. Where the inspectors had made their pronouncements of life and death, the women from The House of Barren Women now waited. She looked out over the thick, tangled crowd of women, children, and the elderly—all those left in Brighton—and then back at her women.
A fierce loyalty blazed in the women’s eyes.
That gave Fitz the courage to speak.
“People of Brighton, I thank you for gathering in the square on such short notice. I know you have been wondering what is going to happen in Brighton. And I’m here to address your concerns.”
The crowd watched her intently as almost everyone fell silent. Women hushed their children.
“A few days ago, I sent out some riders to find General Blackthorn and his army. Those riders brought me back the news that most of us expected.” Fitz waited, dreading the announcement she’d have to make. “The best we can tell, General Blackthorn is dead, and most of his army has fallen. Most of our relatives will not be returning home.”
A few gasps of shock went through the crowd as the rumors whispered in the streets for days were confirmed. Women and children bent their heads as they stared at the ground. Some wailed. Others held their faces. Fitz retained her composure as she waited through their reaction. She’d expected it. Even so, it was difficult for Fitz to watch.
She continued. “We’ve been preparing for this day for a while in our hearts. And while that should make it easier, it doesn’t. We grieve our loved ones and honor their courage. That is what they deserve. While we wait for more news, we need to think of our children, and the people we need to protect here in Brighton. We have a duty to protect our loved ones left behind.”
Fitz fell silent as she watched the crowd. They were still processing what she’d said. A few women cried through the angry expressions on their faces. Before they could direct that anger at her, she went on.
“For years, the leaders of Brighton have told us to harden our hearts, to listen to The Word, to do what’s best for the townships and villages. We’ve been told that every action we take is for the best, that each burning, each spiking, each beating is for Brighton’s betterment. We’ve been told that the smudged need to be Cleansed, so the rest can live. For us women, we’ve been told that we need to lie on our backs and accept the decisions of our men. And most recently, we’ve been told that nineteen thousand men and women were sent out from Brighton for a reason. I could stand up here and tell you that they fought courageously, and that they died for a purpose, but that’s not what I’m here to say. I’m here to tell you that the Elders lied.”
A ripple of confusion and anger went through the crowd. A few women clenched their fists and prepared to shun her. Fitz arched her back. She thought about what Franklin might’ve done, had he still been alive. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind. He was supposed to be standing up here—not her. But she quickly dismissed it. If she failed at what she was about to say, she would fail Brighton.
“The people in Blackthorn’s army were sent to die because of the mistakes of our leaders,” she said, increasing her volume. “A while ago, we watched Scholar Evan burn for a smudge that didn’t exist. Tenbrook told us he was burned because he was infected, but most of us knew that was untrue. That smudge was the smudge of the truth. Evan knew something that he was about to share. A famine was coming to Brighton. That famine would wipe out most of our people. That famine would not be caused by your lack of hard work, or your lack of faith, but by the mistakes of our leaders. That is why our people were sent out to die.”
This time the crowd’s anger found an outlet as more rumors were confirmed true. Fitz glanced at a few women from the New House, who had made sure to spread those truths throughout the town prior to the meeting.
“Blackthorn did this!” someone yelled.
“The Elders killed our men!”
“Blackthorn got what he deserved!”
Fitz watched as the anger spread through the crowd. Some women looked behind them, as if they feared retribution, while others shouted with abandon, letting their anger and grief drive them to things they wouldn’t normally say. Mothers clutched their children tightly.
“I have more news,” Fitz said, holding up her hand to quiet them. “I said most of Blackthorn’s army is dead, but not all of them. A few thousand live. Those few thousand are marching back here under the direction of Father Winthrop, with the intention of breaking down the circle wall.” She explained how many people that was.
The fright and confusion returned. A few shouts echoed over the rest.
Someone yelled, “We’ll be killed!”
“Why would they do that?”
Holding up her arms to quiet the uproar, Fitz drew a breath and allowed the people to settle. Some of what she was about to say was speculation. But she needed to project certainty in her voice if she wanted the people to believe. “Few of you know Winthrop the way I do. His heart is cruel and sick, though his lies are strong. He has convinced the army’s survivors it is in the best interest of Brighton. But whatever the case, we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to demons. If we do, the rest of us will die. I mourn with you for the people we have lost. I mourn for the people who have been sent out with Blackthorn’s army. I wish I could bring your relatives back. But all I can do is promise that no one will have to suffer the way we did under the Elders. Whatever is coming our way, we need to be prepared. We need to convince the men and women marching back here that what Father Winthrop is saying is a lie. And above all, we cannot let Father Winthrop come back to Brighton.”
Some of the crying in the crowd turned to anger as people yelled for Winthrop’s head on a spike. Several others cursed his name.
“Death to Winthrop!”
“The Word is a lie!”
Those shouts built into a chant that quickly spread
from the front of the square to the back, to the rooftops and the windows, to the crowds hovering in places she couldn’t see.
“LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!”
Invigorated by the power of the audience, Fitz yelled, “The reign of the Elders must end!”
Fitz raised her hands in the air and motioned to her Strong Women, who picked up several torches from the side of the stage. One of the women handed a torch to Fitz. Together, they walked over to the chairs at the back of the dais—Blackthorn’s, Winthrop’s, and Beck’s—while Ashley dumped a bucket of oil on the seats, pouring until no liquid was left. Fitz and her Strong Women laid the torches on the expensive chairs. Orange and yellow flames burst from the chairs as the fire took hold, consuming the padded cushions and then the backs, spitting smoke into the air. Fitz stepped back and watched the fiery procession. Then she strode purposefully to the edge of the dais, watching the crowd.
In the loudest voice she could project, she said, “Dead or not, the Elders are never coming back!”
The crowd roared in her support, their tear-streaked faces looking from the flames, to her, to the other women on the stage. They continued the chant as they watched the chairs of the Elders burn.
“LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!”
Chapter 39: Jingo
“The cart itself is worth a fortune,” said Beck, looking at the narrow wagon made of pure, strong, light aluminum that they’d loaded up in the tower, after using it to wheel back supplies from the ship.
“I hope it’s narrow enough to roll on the game trails when we cross the mountains,” said Jingo, as he knelt beside the big-wheeled cart to check the tautness of the ropes over the load.
“Three thousand rounds, four extra rifles, extra pistols, and dozens of hand grenades,” said Beck. “It’s got to weigh two hundred pounds. I hope it’s not too heavy to pull when the trail gets steep.”
