The Light of Hope

by Ernie Lindsey

  Am I worth their pursuit? What do I matter anymore, really?

  To them? To anyone?

  Stop. You have a family.

  They’re all you have left. Fight for them. Fight for your people.

  But I’m so tired.

  My emotions roll like the hills of the Appalachians. Up and down, peaks and valleys, they can’t maintain any sense of a level mindset.

  One minute I’m encouraged and ready for the next battle in this war, and then the next, my emotional wounds bleed me dry, and I’m ready to wave the white flag of surrender.

  It’s too much to bear. I’m exhausted. I need rest.

  Even if it’s not peaceful, even if it’s filled with images of bloody battlefields and Republicon deaths and thoughts of James dying so that I might live, my body has to stop, if only for a little while.

  I feel something in the pocket of my jacket, a lump that I hadn’t noticed before. I reach inside and remove a nutrition bar, wrapped in silver. I must have shoved it there when we first heard Crockett approaching back at the storage shed.

  My stomach grumbles. It feels wrong to use this to revive my body while James, Marla, Squirrel, and the others lay dead and unburied a few miles from here.

  But I have to.

  I manage to hold back my tears while I chew, but it’s hard to swallow around the egg-sized lump in my throat.

  I eat.

  I rest.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open. I can’t fall asleep, not now, so I fight it, just in case Crockett’s men are still out there, in case they’re still coming.

  6

  I had the same dream.

  A tall building. Cars crawling like ants on the march. A nurse. A needle poking my arm. Blue liquid sliding through my veins. “You’ll learn soon enough, Child of Ellery.”

  I awake, drenched in rain and cold sweat.

  It’s morning. I slept the entire night here, exposed.

  My heart threatens to hammer its way out of my chest. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep. Amazingly enough, I’m safe, and none of Crockett’s Republicons stand over me with an arrow pointed between my eyes. My only intruder is a curious chipmunk perched on a rock. He stands on his hind legs, staring at me, wondering what monstrous creature nature as brought into his home.

  The wind shifts and he wiggles his nose, smelling my scent, which has to be a mixture of sweat, eternally drenched clothes, and the remnants of a sweet nutrition bar.

  I keep quiet and hold as absolutely stone motionless as I can. I don’t want to frighten him. I’ve been scared enough by things that are much bigger than me lately—like the entire Democratic Alliance of Virginia—and I don’t want to be the cause of fear in something so inquisitive and innocent.

  This pause, this small moment of silent consideration, saves my life.

  I hear the soggy snap of a damp tree branch, muffled by sopping wet leaves and mud underneath a boot heel. The chipmunk’s ears perk up, he glances to the side, and then he’s gone, scurrying down into his tiny den among the piles of rubble.

  I do not move. I hold my breath for fear of having the rustling of my clothes give me away as my chest rises and falls.

  I try to picture what it might be—animal or human—as I focus on the details of the noise. Two-legged or four-legged. Soft or heavy? Cautious or unaware? I listen to the snap in my head, over and over again, as I wait for something to poke its head around the western-facing wall. I can barely swallow.

  A thicker sheet of rain pushes through, and since the wind has changed, the ever-present drops blow directly into my face. Water drips from my eyebrows, the tip of my nose, and off of my earlobes. The whish of the wind in the leaves and the rain peppering everything around me masks the forest noise.

  The leaves shift with the breeze and flash their underbellies again. For one brief moment I’m relieved as it carries the drops somewhere else, only this time, it brings with it an unmistakable smell: the rank odor of an unwashed man.

  It could be anyone. It could be a traveler passing through. It could be a scout for a different tribe of Republicons. Maybe I’ve crossed into someone else’s territory and didn’t know it, as if I would’ve known what markers to look for anyway.

  Crockett’s was three trees, side by side, in a clearing.

  James told me one time—on our flight to the capital—that when they weren’t on the move and looking for new resources, their markers were two trees sawed off at ten feet, followed by a third at five feet.

  That’s something I would’ve noticed, maybe, during my escape. If it was anything less obvious that blended into the forest, I couldn’t have known.

  Maybe it’s a PRV citizen who escaped the DAV weeks ago, and now he’s drifting alone in the woods merely trying to survive. The thought gives me a flash of hope.

  During our encounter with Crockett, the fight to the death, and my hysterical escape, I hadn’t noticed the fact that my backpack was missing. I remember that it’s back in the storage shed. I had taken it off to store as many nutrition bars as I could possibly carry. Also inside it are my knife and my slingshot, weapons that would be of good use at the moment.

  I curse silently and slide my hand down to the ground beside me, watching the wall’s edge and blindly fumbling for a good-sized stone to throw. My fingers close around one that feels adequate enough to distract a fully-grown man as long as my aim is true. A quick peek reveals that it won’t kill him, but it’ll stun him so that I can at least attempt to run.

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  My heart beats so loudly that I’m almost certain whoever this is on the other side of the crumbling, ancient home can hear it.

  If not that, certainly he can smell my fear.

  I listen to the shuffling of rocks mere feet away.

  Come on, come on. Just do it. Peek around the wall.

  And then, seconds later, he does.

  Zander.

  He spots me in the split-second that it takes me to recognize him. He growls and lunges for me as the rock flies from my hand. It catches him in the center of the forehead but does nothing more than give him pause. He shakes his head, blinks away the pain, and jumps for me.

  I’m lighter on my feet, and more nimble, so his outstretched arms find nothing but empty space as he stumbles and falls into the remaining rock wall.

  Should I run or fight?

  Don’t be stupid. Get away. Now!

  I spin around and push with thighs that have recovered with overnight rest. It’s too much. I don’t expect to have as much strength as I do and it sends me forward into a bed of loose stones. I roll with them, dancing across the top as I try to maintain my balance. It works for seconds—that feel like hours—until my right foot finds a crevice and drops until it gets stuck, twisting, turning with momentum and sending me to the ground. The sensation is almost like the Earth itself reaching up to grab my ankle and yank me down. My face bounces off a rock, bloodying my nose.

  I bite my lip as well. I can already taste the blood.

  Throwing myself onto my back, I see Zander coming for me, vicious, thrilled snarl pulling his upper lip to one side. “Too bad for you, huh?” he says, holding his hands out like claws, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Thought you could get away from us. You don’t get away from the best tracker the DAV army had ever seen.”

  “Then why did you leave?” I ask, trying to stall him.

  “Because after we destroyed your village—oh yes, don’t look so surprised. I remember you. I was there when they slit that old hag’s throat. Your Republicon friends didn’t get all of us that day. Those were my friends that died that day, scout, and you want to know how good it felt to watch that rotten gaggle of thieves lay there on the ground, wiggling like worms as the blood leaked out of those holes in their bodies? Damn good. Nothing sweeter than revenge. But to answer your question, I left because I learned to take what’s mine, instead of doing it for someone else. I met Crockett and her men in the forest, and they kindly let me tag alo
ng.”

  As he approaches, I’m subtly trying to work my foot free. He has another fifteen feet of space to cover, stalking me over loose rocks on the ground. As before, I blindly feel at my sides, hoping to grasp another rock to use as a weapon. Most of the ones within arm’s reach are too big for me to throw with any effectiveness; however, I could possibly lift one rapidly enough to knock the side of his head.

  I ask, “So instead of working for the blackcoats, you decided to work for Crockett? How’s that different?”

  He chuckles. It’s a repulsive laugh that rattles the phlegm in his throat. “She wouldn’t have lasted long trying to run things, not with me around. Her own kind were already starting to turn on her, and then you lot showed up and sped up the inevitable. In a way, I guess I should be thanking you because once I get back to the others with your pretty little blonde scalp for a necklace, guess who they’re gonna cheer for? Guess who they’re gonna put in charge of things?”

  “I saw a chipmunk earlier. I’m sure he could do a better job.”

  He laughs again, clears his throat, and spits the results by my head. It lands a safe distance away. My hand settles on a rock and tests its weight, but only a little, just so I can feel it and he can’t see me doing it.

  This one has to work.

  He’s more observant than I thought. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he hisses as he shakes his head. “That’s not very nice. Put it down.”

  “Put what down?”

  “Your little weapon.”

  Foiled, I have nothing to lose, so I pick up the stone and sling it at him. He dodges it easily as it sails past his head. My last hope clunks against the western wall that guarded me all night and falls to the ground, useless.

  “What a shame,” he says, chuckling over my pitiful attempt. “I was going to make it painless, scout, but that little stunt will cost you.”

  Zander removes the bow hanging around his shoulders, nocks an arrow, and draws it back. The bowstring creaks against the tension. He aims squarely at the center of my stomach.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t have any words left.

  “Gut shot,” he says, breathing heavily through his nose, as if he’s excited. “A couple of them ought to give you plenty of time to think about your mistakes.”

  Too late for that. It’s all I’ve thought about since the night Finn the Betrayer attacked me on the battlefield outside the city of Warrenville.

  I wait for the end.

  But I also continue to wiggle my trapped foot, just in case.

  If I could…it’s almost… Just a little more…

  I squint and turn my head, looking away from him. Waiting. Waiting.

  Movement catches my eye. The chipmunk bursts from his den and scampers across the rocks. Fleet footed, he jumps from wet stone to wet stone, never breaking stride. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to flee.

  His flight to safety distracts Zander, who looks away from me, eyes fixated on the chipmunk as he gallops toward a nearby tree stump.

  This is my last chance. I throw my body sideways, using what strength I have left to yank my foot free. I roll. I have nowhere to go out of the reach of Zander’s arrows, but I roll. The animalistic survival instinct inside me won’t let me give up. So many times within the past couple of days I’ve wanted to stop. I’ve wanted to close my eyes and let death take me because it seems so pointless. But here I am, now, in the most helpless situation I’ve been in, and I’m refusing to give up.

  That tells me I still have a little bit of fight left in me—enough to fight for my life, if only for a few more seconds.

  Zander is so close. I feel the arrow as soon as I hear it. At short range, it’s a miracle that he actually misses my abdomen. It lodges in the loose jacket material at my side. I grab it by the arrowhead, pull it straight through, and I jump for him, driving the tip deep into his thigh; I feel it stop when it hits bone.

  The blackcoat deserter roars and bends over, one hand on his leg, another on the arrow. It’s a natural reaction to get at the thing hurting you the most, the way we instinctually slap our arms with a mosquito bite or swat at a honeybee that stings your foot.

  I swing upward and feel the soft stones between his legs smash underneath my forearm. Another roar in my face; his breath smells like a dead deer on a humid day.

  Both my hands close around a heavy rock the size of a small pumpkin and I slam it into his mouth. He falls backward, dazed, wounded in three places and disoriented.

  Zander, on instinct, tries to use his bow as a prop to break his fall, and much to my dismay, it snaps in two. My heart sinks. I could’ve used that.

  Damn it. Damn my luck.

  His quiver lies empty beside him. With only one arrow, which now protrudes from his thigh, the loss of the bow does not seal my doom, but it would’ve been useful.

  Still…

  Stunned and confused, Zander coughs and smirks up at me as I stand over him with my weapon. I can’t tell if I’ve knocked teeth loose or if they were already missing. He gurgles and empties a mouthful of blood to the side.

  “Gonna kill me, girl? You can’t do it, can you?” he asks. “I knew you wouldn’t have it in you.”

  “You sure about that?” I fall forward, rock held high over my head, and I bring it crashing down, again and again. “This is for Grandfather… And Brandon… And James… And Marla… And Squirrel.”

  When I’m finished, one blow struck for each of the spirits in my life, I feel an overpowering sense of shame for allowing the animal in me to take over.

  I have to tell myself that his was just another casualty of war before I can breathe normally again.

  The others will be looking for him soon.

  I have to go find my flock.

  7

  Zander’s blood on my hands is evidence of wrongdoing to nobody but me, yet I can’t allow it to stay on there. The cloying, metallic smell is making me sick to my stomach and I get a whiff of it each and every time I pump my arms while I run.

  I stop briefly under a wider opening in the forest canopy and hold my hands up to the pouring rain. It’s not enough to wash it away completely. I curse and keep running, trying not to breathe in the odor. About a quarter of a mile later, down in the trough of a small valley, I find a natural spring gushing out of a hillside outcropping. I scrub with porous rocks until my hands are pink and cold from the chilly water.

  They look like my hands again, not weapons of murder.

  Not murder, Caroline. War. Kill or be killed.

  I hold my mouth open under the rushing spout. The water is clean. It’s fresh runoff from the constant rain, traveling over rocks with little time to pick up silt and sludge. I drink until my stomach is full. It’s the only way to stave off the emptiness in my gut—both physically and emotionally.

  Marking my location by the sun, which scarcely claws through a thinner spot in the cloud cover, I head due east. I still don’t know how I got myself lost, but I blame the exhaustion, the fear, and the hunger. East is the only way to go. Eventually I’ll find the road we left behind. It’s there. It’s just a matter of how far.

  I stop for a handful of blueberries. They won’t last long, but it’s something.

  I’ll let the valley be my guide. The rushing creek at my side has to empty somewhere, and my guess is the river that ran to Warrenville. It bordered the road for a spell, and this stream will get me where I need to be.

  I find it by nightfall. It shouldn’t have taken me so long to go a mere five miles in the woods, but that was if I had been on my original track from the storage shed. I don’t know how far off course I had gotten; perhaps the valley weaved and curved too much. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be a straight line. Or it’s possible that the road heading north had been laid further to the east from my position.

  Regardless, I made it. I’m here, and there is no sign of Crockett’s remaining Republicons behind me. Thank God.

  The biggest problem is—which is now my only problem—forty thous
and marching citizen-slaves and a thin regiment of DAV blackcoats are nowhere to be seen. It’s unlikely that any additional bands of roving Republicons will be in the area given the blackcoat presence, but I have to stay cautious. Being around the open path carving through the mountains, and highly visible, is dangerous.

  Where I’m lurking up here on the ridgeline, it’s too hard to see in the cloud-covered, weakening light of dusk. I have to get closer to the road so I can check for evidence of the group’s passage. Broken limbs, tromped grass, or Heaven forbid, a body left behind—something will give me a clue as to whether I’m ahead of them or behind.

  It doesn’t take me long. I find a ragged, muddy shirt lying among a tall patch of grass pushed to the ground. It used to be pink. There’s a white rose sewn into the chest. I feel for the little girl who lost it, because she may be shirtless and freezing.

  To me, in a way, it’s a good sign. At least I know I’m trailing my people, and I shouldn’t have much trouble catching up to the lumbering masses.

  The days are long and miserable by myself. At least with James and the others around, we had company and conversation, someone to gripe to and someone to help with the seemingly never-ending task of finding enough food to keep my body fueled.

  I’m not complaining, because at least I’m free, but it’s somewhat easier on the marching PRV people. The road provides a clear surface and often, a level path for them to make their journey. Me, I’m climbing over downed trees, taking extra-long detours around rocky outcroppings, and climbing in and out of valleys just to stay side by side with everyone.

  For a few hours one day, I have to stop and rest because each of my legs feel like they weigh four hundred pounds apiece, about what I imagined General Chief Hawkins might have weighed back in our encampment so long ago—the gluttonous jerk.