Out of Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  “We need to set up hunting parties.”

  “What for? Deer or lion?”

  “There must be some farms hidden around here.”

  “I heard there are underground storages from the Suppression.”

  “I won’t eat radiated meat. No way.”

  “Send the women to look for berries.”

  “Wish those cave-dwellers would show up.”

  “Should have stayed in Exodia.”

  “That kid, Bram, doesn’t know what he’s doing. And his brother, Harmon, is no better.”

  The griping continued. Bram set up a contingent of lookouts to rotate duty throughout the night, but by the next morning half of them had ignored his orders. A revolt seemed likely.

  Bram gathered his oldest and newest allies in the back room of the jewelry store. “Any suggestions?” he asked, looking from Malcolm to Josh to Harmon. Mira and Lydia stood by his side and cast sideways glances at the one-way mirror.

  “Can that thing of yours create any kind of barrier around us?” Harmon asked Malcolm. “I was thinking we could send out a group to look for food and you could keep them safe.”

  Malcolm let out a gruff laugh. “You have no idea, do you? There’s no controlling that cloud. I only carry the box.” He looked out from under a lowered brow and snorted. “’Course, Bram here could figure out a solution.”

  Bram folded his arms against his chest, but kept his lips tight. Malcolm continued, “Go and listen to it, Bram. That hum. I know you hear more than we do. Maybe the answer is there.”

  “Maybe we don’t do anything,” Josh snapped. He appeared older than most men in their twenties. His jaw bone popped out as he grit his teeth. “I’ve got friends, Blake and Branson and Herb, who’ll help put down the rebellion.”

  “Rebellion?” Mira gasped. She exchanged a glance with Lydia and her mother, then looked to her brothers. “We don’t need any more division.” She softened her statement with a shy look toward Josh who instantly dropped his hostile posture. “We just need the Mourners to, uh, behave and reform.”

  Harmon nudged Bram.

  * * *

  Mira’s words float in my mind’s eye. Behave and reform. They change into bread from heaven. I have the answer, but I doubt myself. Harmon’s elbow wakens me.

  “Malcolm, where’s the box?”

  “Got some kids guarding it near the fifth spring. Right outside this store. I’ll get it.”

  “Josh, I’m grateful for your support. You and your friends have been trained in Suppression fighting, right?”

  “Not by choice. Battista’s generals used to grab kids off the streets and use us as opponents. Knocked us up pretty bad so we had to learn by default.”

  I remember that. When I was a child I used to watch the soldiers train. Blue on Blue, Blue on Red. Later I trained against older Reds. I thought they were volunteers.

  “Here it is.” Malcolm sets the box on the nearest chair. “Hummin’ like a charm.”

  I catch a funny look in Malcolm’s eye. “What is it?”

  “Well, they’re gathering out there in the open part. Sayin’ things like they wished they’d died in Exodia, that they’re starvin’ here.”

  Why is this my job? I barely get that thought out when the hum becomes clear words to me. It’s God’s voice; I know what we have to do.

  “Take the box back to the common area. Let’s go. I’ve got some good news for everyone.”

  We emerge from the store to find a crowd lining the first and second story concourse. The stairways are packed. The buzz of the crowd far outweighs the hum of Malcolm’s box, but when they see us, people hush themselves.

  I climb up one of the narrower metal stairs, the one the older folks claim used to move up on its own. I’m afraid I’m going to stutter, but I speak anyway.

  “You’re hungry. I know. Tomorrow morning there will be bread outside. Bread from heaven. Ronel has airplanes. He knows where we are. He’ll drop meat for us in the evening. And bread in the morning.”

  They erupt in so much noise that I don’t even try to tell them the rest. They’ve grumbled and God has heard them. That’s enough for now. Let them feast and forget about the cave-dwellers.

  * * *

  For six days the Reds gathered food that landed neatly in the weedy expanse around the mall. Bread fell in the morning before amber rays overlaid the gray. In the evening after the sun set, but before darkness returned, packages of irradiated meat landed with rhythmic thumps. What they didn’t eat rotted overnight, but the mornings always brought fresh treasure. When Bram told them there would be no planes on Saturday and to gather twice as much to hold over, some of the Reds refused to believe that Friday’s rations would not go stale and wormy as the other days’ had. When no planes came those people begged or traded with their neighbors for their saved pieces of bread and meat.

  The cave-dwellers didn’t return. Bram and his advisers, now including his brother, Josh, Herb, Eugene, Korzon, Teague, and five others, decided it was safe to move on. Malcolm brought his box to Bram for a final listen and everyone packed up their possessions, adding pilfered items from the mall that might be useful. Bram’s assurances that food would continue to be dropped were only believed because Malcolm pointed out how easily visible the electronic cloud would be for a plane to spot.

  “Have every family ready to leave at first light,” Bram ordered. This time the nodding heads gave him a bit more hope that they’d comply.

  Chapter 6 The Rod of War

  From the ninth page of the second Ledger:

  The table set before them became a snare, retribution, and a trap.

  The eyes of their enemies were darkened so they could see no more and their backs were bent forever.

  DAWN HAS PASSED and we’re still a sluggish mob struggling to get underway. It’s mid-morning and only half the Reds have moved out, their carts and sleds a little fuller with the crazy prizes they’ve pillaged from this lodge—store signs, hangers, cupboard drawers.

  I hear Mira ask her suitor, Josh, why people are taking such useless souvenirs.

  “Useless?” Josh says. “Hardly. That small metal sign will be used as a plate. And look at this. I unscrewed this metal tube from a clothes rack. It’s long enough to use as a walking stick, but it’ll come in handy as a spear. See? The end is sharp.” He smiles at her and she smiles back. It’s hardly something to smile about, but they’re searching for a way to flirt in this impossible circumstance. I hate to interrupt.

  “Josh? Are there more of those?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Can you take your buddies and get them all? Hand them out to those who haven’t left yet. As weapons.”

  “Yeah, no problem. Bullets are precious. Swords and spears could save the day.” He gives me a little salute. I like him. He’s smart and obedient and if his cohorts are as stalwart as he seems, I think we’ll have an even bigger advantage if Lydia’s abductors cut us off or we run into another unfriendly settlement.

  * * *

  Hundreds of people ranged out across the wider path once they left the surrounds of the mall having channeled themselves through the narrow exits. Harmon, Mira, Josh, and a team of young men with bodies like warriors moved quickly into the lead. When he was far enough ahead, Bram set his bags down and held the rod out over the heads of Josh’s comrades. As they passed, each man tapped the rod with the sharp end of his imitation spear. Sparks of red, blue, and green shot outward to the amusement and cheers of the children.

  Their shouts did much to drown out the grumblings of the older folks who’d hoped to make a city centered at the twelve springs mall. Bram ignored the complaints, well used to the grumblings, and as soon as all of the sword-wielding men ranged outward he shouldered his bags and helped Lydia with her things. They advanced around the various clusters of Reds and made their way to Malcolm.

  “Hey, Malcolm.”

  “Hey, Bram, do you hear it?”

  Bram and Lydia fell into step with the older man
. Lydia’s eyes were drawn to the amazing sight of the hovering cloud in front of them, but Bram stared at the machine and listened for the hum to change into discernible words.

  “Must not be working today,” Bram sounded disappointed.

  Malcolm frowned. “’Course it’s working. Can’t you hear the hum?”

  “That’s what I mean. I only hear the hum.”

  Malcolm looked to Lydia, shrugged his shoulders, then tapped the box a couple of times. He shooed away some children who were running circles around them. Bram saw the same little girl who had told him to listen the first time when he’d deciphered the weird phrase on the box and heard the voice of God.

  More than a small stab of anxiety caused Bram to doubt himself. The hum continued as they passed through an abandoned town, lumbered down a country road, and came upon a desolate ruin: a long deserted airport.

  * * *

  The cloud divides into dozens of smaller ones. They turn blood red, coagulating into clots low in the sky, then evaporate in an instant. The humming snaps off. I hear the voice, only one word at first: table. There’s a shivering breath and then I hear table land and finally fight here, you will raise the rod and win.

  “Fight here?” I say that aloud and Lydia and Malcolm both ask me what I mean. “Wait.” I turn and look around, spot Harmon and jog over to him.

  “I think we have a problem.”

  He looks away from me and scans the Reds for signs of fights.

  “No, Harmon, not them. The people that held Lydia. They’re coming to fight us here.”

  “What? It’s been a week.”

  I point to the air traffic control tower. There’s been no traffic to control in decades, but still it stands like a colossal guard many stories high giving a circular view of where we’ve come from and where we’re going.

  “Let’s go up there and look.”

  Harmon trusts me. We head to the tower and leave our possessions outside, except for the rod. We climb in through a window and step over the litter that’s scattered on the floor. Long ago this place had been decorated in a woodsy hunting theme which now looks hauntingly gruesome with shaggy animal heads tilted on the walls and broken wooden furniture pushed against the stairs. We shove aside the dusty wheeled chairs and tables and ascend the steps.

  The room at the top is unexpectedly clean. The chairs are gone; their empty stalls are clear of debris and consoles hold nothing more than screens and some kind of thick black wires, curly at one end and bowed in an arc at the other end with round protuberances. Harmon lifts one up and wonders aloud if it’s a communication device. I look out the windows that, though filthy, are all still unbroken. We have an astonishing view in every direction. Some runways are bare, others are strewn with propellers, small plane noses and tails, and large wings from jets whose bodies were wheeled off to use as cabins. I see one battered fuselage that didn’t get towed away. It blocks a gateway. A ripple of movement shines off its windows. I prop the rod against a console and look more sharply.

  “There. See?”

  Harmon spins to peer out to the south.

  “And there.”

  He jerks in equal surprise at the northern view. “Two enemies?”

  “No. The same enemy. Divided. See their garments? Same colors.”

  The horses and men to the north are stationary, planted directly in our path, ready to mow us down when we leave the flat ground. The southern army approaches steadily, swarming east and west as they advance, as if they intend to round us up like sheep and herd us toward a slaughter.

  Directly below us the Reds are swelling across the runways completely unaware of the disaster that will strike from every side. I hear the crowd’s usual noise: the buzz of talking, the clunks and scrapes of sleds and carts being pulled behind huffing travelers. But there is also a low hum.

  “I expect you’ll need this.” It’s Malcolm. He’s followed us up into the tower, toting his machine like a precious babe. The hum stops; the fresh, white cloud the machine controls hangs low, just above the heads of those in the lead, then it descends further presenting a fog through which they fear to pass.

  “We have to fight.” I grab the amplifying device that Malcolm offers and swallow hard. One word from my dry mouth and the people below jump back. Another word and they look to the cloud and then toward the tower, see me, and settle down, only to rile when I tell them we must fight an enemy they cannot see.

  “They’re moving!” Harmon’s arm reaches north indicating the impending attack.

  For just an instant the hum abates and I hear those words again: raise the rod and win. It’s God’s voice, though others might claim it’s Ronel’s.

  Harmon repeats his panicked claim and adds, “Are these those underground dwellers?”

  I have no idea who they are, though I suspect he’s dead on. I stare unseeing until the words I heard from the machine rearrange themselves to answer Harmon in a distorted puzzle. “Risen town head raid.”

  He scowls at me and waves his hand in front of my face. “Risen town? What? This is more than a raid. Listen!”

  The first sounds of gunfire precede horrifying screams. My head clears and my vision sharpens. The Reds under the cloud drop their things and run toward the tower. The people who lagged behind now race forward. I stand perfectly still. A chilling silence deafens my ears. It’s followed by a lightning strike so profound that it must turn everyone’s hearing to stone. When the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear erratic shots. Our people are wasting their ammunition.

  “Put your backs to the tower,” I shout into the amplifier. I search below for Lydia. She rushes her mother toward the base of the tower.

  The enemies, some running on foot, others galloping, cross the landing fields firing precious bullets to start the slaughter. They close in and the fighting changes. It’s a primitive struggle, with knives and bats in the hands of the attackers and faux swords and iron pans the only resistance from the Reds since they’ve no time to reload. I grab the rod, raise it high, and expect that it will help somehow. All around below the scraggly Reds fight the darker, taller enemies while I keep my eyes trained on Lydia, trusting that she’ll survive this terror. She finds a weapon and brandishes it to hold off a man who defects her lunges with ease. He yanks her forward and she loses her balance, falls hard to the ground, and flails. Vapors gather around her, swirl and thicken, until they drift upward obscuring her. Yet no pang of fear disturbs my strange peace.

  A single spark leaps from Malcolm’s machine to the end of my rod and makes the rod vibrate in my hand. Below, those whose sword-like shafts were poached from the mall swing them like bats, cracking heads, or thrust them at unshielded bellies, drawing outraged fury along with blood. The battle turns in our favor.

  Malcolm shoves the machine into a cubbyhole under one of the consoles and shouts that he’ll run down to pull the children to safety through the broken windows. Harmon stands rigid behind me looking south.

  “We should fight. Come on,” he snarls. “Bring the rod. We can blow up that whole southern flank.”

  He has a good idea. I haven’t forgotten what this rod can do. I lower it, but something flits before my eyes—those letters again: raise the rod and win. It’s a command. I hesitate, staring at my brother’s chest.

  “Hey … Bram.” He waves his hand before my eyes again, impatient, angry. “Let’s go.” The force of his words churns the air around me. I see him silhouetted in a shaft of softened light. His face is hidden behind his wagging hand.

  There is thunder now, punching like a black and silver fist. It covers the screams at first then something changes. My ears clog; indistinct noises reverberate. Harmon tries to grab the rod from me, but I hold it firmly in the middle.

  “No! Look.” Riderless horses are prancing about. The outer edges of the siege are littered with wounded bodies—of our friends, of our enemies—but the momentary advantage we had now fades. I see Red after Red succumbing to the brutal acts of violence, falling beneath the
ir opponents’ feet, injured and ready to surrender.

  “We’re losing,” Harmon yells, no doubt angry at my indecision.

  I shake my head. “Stay with me. Help me.” I can’t explain this to him so I raise the rod and point. The very men we saw yielding to the enemies’ greater strength regain their footing, fight harder, stab and thrust and lunge against their adversaries. “I have to keep the rod high.”

  I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy, but he stays. I spot Lydia again. She no longer has a weapon. Josh throws her his metal pole. I watch her as she holds off a warrior with the sharper end of the pole, circles him, prods and thrusts and shocks him with the sparking point.

  Josh tackles the more aggressive men. He kills with his bare hands, breaking their necks.

  “Raise it higher,” Harmon instructs.

  We both watch as Lydia’s weapon finds the warrior’s throat and a quick jab rips his jugular.

  I have the rod as high as I can get it and the battles below us rage hotter and faster. Ghostly images of death flicker beneath the foggy glow of the cloud. A wind blows hard, snapping trousers against legs, swirling dust into faces, and summoning the rain.

  * * *

  Harmon braced Bram’s arm with his own so the heavy rod could remain at its highest elevation. Outside the sky darkened and the rains fell like shards of glass. The tip of the rod produced a radiance of golden light that made the tower shine like a lighthouse. Those below who held the metal swords felt them grow warm; the heat built to a scorching laser-like sting at their ends that forced the enemy to pull back. The older Reds, who now had time to reload their guns, took judicious aim.

  Josh’s friends, Blake and Branson and Herb, and a hundred other strong young men pushed the cave-dwellers to the edge of the tarmac, fighting hand to hand and defeating the vicious foe until the rain passed and their sword-like weapons began to cool. As the sky lightened Herb looked back toward the tower and saw the ethereal outline of Bram’s body being crutched by his brother. The famous rod was tipping downward. He saw, too, at the base of the tower, Lydia, Jenny, and other women defending the windowed entrance to the children’s safe spot. Herb, soaked with rain and sweat, ran toward them, aware that something about the battle had changed again.