Out of Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  He reached the tower and sliced at the legs of two men who were attacking the women. When they fell forward he didn’t hesitate to end their lives. The women, drenched and weary, nodded their thanks and went back to blocking the entrance.

  “I need to reach Bram,” Herb shouted. He handed off his weapon to the woman on Lydia’s left and vaulted through the window behind her. He charged up the stairs and entered the control room. Harmon and Bram were struggling to keep the rod pointing straight heavenward. Beyond them the clearing skies held a melting sun ready to set; it would be dark again soon and this time it would stay that way for a long bloody night if this battle didn’t end now. Herb helped Harmon prop up Bram’s tiring limbs and immediately heard the groans below transform into challenging growls. There was something supernatural going on and the lifted rod was the key to their victory.

  Chapter 7 Unexpected Visitors

  From the ninth page of the second Ledger:

  They encamped there in the open in the desert-like field, battle-worn, fatigued, but victorious. They counted their numbers and were gladdened.

  Then the brother of his son appeared.

  WE DESCEND THE steps and cut across the guarded room. A tired Lydia leans against the far wall, fists clenched to a bloodless white and crossed over her chest. I give her a hug and see her anxiety dissolve. We climb through the window. The acrid stink of gunpowder assaults my nose. The stench of blood, the wormy scent of wet earth, the odor of fear and exertion all balance heavily with the sensations I feel: wet grass against my legs, chilled air along my throat. I hear the final thuds of bones against the gravelly road.

  A great wind follows the few surviving cave-dwellers as they run west, chased only by the darkness the setting sun allows. Mira appears, salutes, and leads a short victory dance which swirls in serpentine orbits around us. Her whole body, shoulders bent forward, twists and shakes in a rapturous dance. No need for the beat and clang of instruments, she whirls in clipped steps. Those behind her mimic her disjointed movements. When she stops I suck in my breath and swing the rod in a wide arc over everyone. A blessing. Yet at this triumphant moment a finger of dread draws icy lines up my spine.

  The solemn burial of seventeen casualties and then the ransacking of the dead bodies of hundreds of our attackers must precede any other celebration. Women and children carry flickering torches that spill otherworldly shadows on the dead. The spoils include a few guns, flasks of fermented cider, coins, rings, jackets, and several curious items no one can identify. Dozens of horses mill around and are quickly claimed as pack animals.

  “Man,” Josh exclaims when finally we gather in smaller groups, his voice hoarse from battle screams, “that was something fierce. Did anyone else notice how the rain seemed to make our swords heat up?”

  Herb nods vigorously and adds, “Not only that, but as long as Bram kept the rod straight up everything went in our favor.”

  Harmon smiles and throws me a look that apologizes. Softly he quotes, “Raise the rod and win.”

  The letters spin in my head first to risen town head raid and then reform into sword heated in rain. I’m awed by the mysterious connection; reverence prickles the hairs on my arms. I want to share my humbled thoughts, but my tongue stays thick against the roof of my mouth.

  Lydia claims my attention and loosens my tongue with a question about food and shelter.

  “Break into the hangars,” I say. “We can sleep there or here in the tower. It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll be dry.”

  “And food?”

  I have nothing but confidence in my pronouncement. “There’ll be bread on the runways in the morning.”

  Mira’s friend Onita motions two fingers to speak and I give her a simple nod.

  “I’d like to make a banner,” she says, “to commemorate this victory.”

  The other women don’t wait for my response; they offer to help. Josh moves off to break down hangar doors. The women walk away with their heads together, beams of first moonlight whitewashing their bowed heads. They won’t sleep tonight.

  I think a better thanks would be to build an altar. The Lord is my banner. My whole life I’ve heard about Ronel and come to believe that he was like a god, but he is no more God than I am. I held that fantastical rod up high tonight—lifted my hands to the throne of God even. How can I ever make these people understand?

  * * *

  Bram left the airfield on a simple mission of his own. With the rod for protection and some basic tools in his belt sacks he was gone for two hours and back before dawn. No one rose early enough to catch his return or to see the bread land like tiny helicopters all across the paved and grassy areas of the derelict airstrip. When the Reds at last awoke from fitful dreams they neither competed nor raced to gather their sustenance. Like sleepwalkers they strode aimlessly, passing two or three fresh loaves before stopping at a random loaf, eating there, maybe sharing, maybe devouring the entire round mass alone without a thought for family or friend. The shock of yesterday’s battle upset all the more their already disjointed lives, their status as a free people still not fully understood.

  Lydia left the hangar and looked up to where Bram had spent the night. She could see him watching from the tower. She raised a hand to wave, sending her long morning shadow toward the base of the looming building to cover several loaves that lay along the path. She gathered as many as she could carry and took them in to the children and parents who had stayed in the lower level. After a second and third collection she had served them all. She went back for a fourth harvest then climbed the steps to see Bram.

  He said he had no appetite, but when Lydia held the bread out he broke off a crusty edge, savored the yeasty aroma, and consumed the entire loaf. Lydia watched him with a hint of a smile obscuring her relief that Bram had not fought in the battle. She’d been so scared last night that he would charge out to save her and be captured. She’d tangled with one cave-dweller who’d recognized her and threatened to use her to seize the Red leader, but who fell dead at the hand of Blake.

  “Malcolm’s ready to leave,” she said. “He found an old map in the hangar, but he said it wouldn’t help. The cloud will lead us.”

  “Did you look at the map?”

  “I didn’t understand it. There were a lot of numbers and lines marking air routes and there were color codes on the cities. Exodia is black.”

  “I think I’d like to see it.”

  They walked the short distance to the hangar, passing bewildered Reds still numb from lack of sleep. The outside air was warm, but the cooler temperature in the hangar made Lydia rub some warmth into her arms. She led Bram to an office where old maps lined the walls.

  “We’re here.” She pointed to a faded plastic chart of flight routes, but Bram stepped past her and examined another map, one of a former thriving state. He stared at the legend, found the airport, and noted the surrounding symbols.

  “Usala’s Rock,” he breathed, tapping his index finger on the monument’s icon. “It’s east of here. We haven’t gone as far as I thought.”

  Lydia gripped Bram’s arm and briefly pressed her face against his biceps. She rubbed a new chill from her arms, held her jealous thoughts in check, and with measured calm asked a difficult question. “Bram, are we close to Kassandra’s ranch?” She barely perceived his affirmative gesture. “Do you want to send for … for your son?”

  * * *

  Send for my son? Lydia’s gentle inquiry strikes me hard. I stare at her. She looks like she’s ready to cry. Her eyes are puffy and red, matching some welts and bruises from the fight that I only just now noticed. She shivers.

  “Come closer.” I wrap my arms around her, feel her shudder. Because she’s nearly as tall as I am I only need to drop my head a bit and our cheeks enjoy a warmth that spreads throughout my body. Her breath tingles along my neck, little hurricanes of heat that roll along my skin.

  “I was so afraid I was going to lose you,” she whispers.

  I pull back and look
into her eyes. I frown my question why? and she responds, “Because they wanted to capture you.”

  I bring her back into a tight embrace, try to squeeze my unspoken words of love and comfort into her heart. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I whisper into her hair. “Not ever.”

  We stand together, glued, joined, and perhaps too rigid. I loosen my grip, relax.

  “And your son?” she asks again.

  I absolutely want to see him. I would have sent Barrett to fetch him along with Raul and Katie and Kassandra, but Barrett is gone.

  Now I’m the only one who could find the ranch. Maybe it would be all right to let the people camp here a day or two while I go.

  “I would like to see Gresham.” I don’t mention Kassandra; I’ve never missed her.

  “I could go with you,” she says with a question in her tone. She leans back, not to break our embrace, but to see my reaction. There’s no right answer. If I tell her no because the journey is dangerous she’d be insulted or doubt my devotion. If I tell her she can come along she’d see the hesitation in my eyes and read it wrong.

  “I’d like to see my son, but I have a job to do here. I have to lead these people to the place that is prepared for us.” I watch her face brighten. “I can search him out later.”

  * * *

  Most of the day was spent loitering around the fields waiting for the cloud to move. Malcolm was stymied as to why it didn’t lead them north. The box hummed, the people were packed, Bram was anxious to journey on, but nothing happened. By evening the cloud spread itself wider over the airport obscuring the skies. Packages of meat pelted through the silver puffs landing neatly at the feet of all the travelers. But they didn’t travel that day, nor the next. By the third day Eugene’s men were devising ways to build a city right where they were. They ignored Bram’s commands and scoffed at Korzon’s blunt advice. They even shunned Teague whose wise words they’d always heeded before. Instead, they sent out runners to scout for farmland or salvage supplies from the old neighborhoods that flanked the airport. They had no success. They returned with upsetting stories of feeling watched by human eyes or stalked by animals. Some came back with injuries, skin rashes, or fits of vomiting from eating wild berries or plants.

  On the fourth day the cloud rose higher, like a helicopter ready to ascend straight up and then take off. The people cheered. Some had grown fearful that the cave-dwellers who survived would return with reinforcements. They ran to the front of the line only to change their cheers into disappointed groans when the cloud sank back into a shape like a pillar. Bram held up the rod and calmed the people. Despite their noise he faintly heard something he thought he’d never hear again: a certain melody sung in the clear tones of his former wife’s voice.

  Many scowled at him as he turned back to the control tower. He raced through the crowd leaving Lydia and Harmon to wonder what he was up to. Mira, though, had seen the look on his face and knew.

  He climbed the stairs two at a time, dropped the rod, and pressed himself against the eastern windows. The sun stabbed gold and red daggers in his eyes, but he shielded them with his right hand and steadied his body against the console with his left. It took a moment but he spotted three sheep carts led by two women and a man. It had to be Kassandra and her father and sister. Gresham could be riding in one of the carts. His heart caught in his throat at the excitement of seeing his son again. His boy. Walking? Talking?

  * * *

  I’m sure I must be dreaming. I blink away the tears and look again. They’re entering the airport from the east side, the gated way, the only untrampled path. Raul easily swings the iron aside and leads the group toward the mass of waiting Reds who have no idea that they’re approaching. I wave my hand though the Lunas aren’t looking up here. My people are, though, and they stretch their necks to look in the direction I’ve pointed. They’re quick to fear outsiders, but Mira has directed Harmon and Lydia to reach them first. I want to run to Gresham, but now my legs are as sluggish as my tongue. Harmon yells to the crowd to tell them who these visitors are. The uninterested fall back, the curious reach out a hand in welcome, Lydia kneels down to greet my son, and, this I can hardly believe, Mira lifts a baby from Kassandra’s arms.

  This is what Barrett knew and never told me. He’d made the detour past Usala’s Rock and on to the ranch, collected the ledger papers I’d left there—they’d become divorce papers—and he’d seen Kassandra. He told me Raul and Katie worked the ranch while Kassandra tended Gresham and he told me something else: that they’d both grown fat. I knew then that it was a clue, but I ignored it.

  My feet still stick tightly to the floor. Dozens of pairs of eyes look up at me. I try to swallow, but can’t. At last Lydia waves me down, smiling that brave wonderful smile of hers.

  * * *

  Whispered explanations morphed into rippling gossip once Mira and Jenny told Onita and Marilyn, who turned to the women beside them who in turn passed the news outward that this was Bram’s family. It didn’t matter that a few facts got corrupted and names were mixed up. Once it was obvious that they weren’t leaving the airport today most of the Reds wandered away from the awkward scene.

  Bram received Raul with a sad nod of his head, then he lengthened the greeting into an elaborate bow and, strangely, kissed his former father-in-law on the cheek. Katie grumbled a hello when Bram looked at her. Kassandra grabbed up the baby and reached for Gresham’s hand.

  “Hello, Dalton.” Her voice was a mix of acid and honey.

  “He goes by his real name now,” Lydia said. “Bram.”

  Kassandra glanced at Lydia while Dalton, now Bram to everyone, stood mute. “See how Gresham’s grown?” She shifted her poisonous gaze back to him. “And this is your second son, Eli.”

  Bram put his palm on the baby’s head, stroked the soft fuzz of black hair, and ran his fingers down Eli’s chubby cheek. He looked so much like Gresham had the last time he’d seen his firstborn, only Eli was twice as big, maybe three months old. He drew in a faltering breath and choked out a low greeting to the baby. Then he squatted down to be eye level with Gresham who sat wedged in the cart. He offered a smile. The toddler poked his fingers into Bram’s beard and giggled. The sheep that pulled Gresham’s cart jostled the toddler and he laughed some more.

  “My father made us come,” Kassandra spit the words over his head. “He read it in the stars—how you brought everyone out of Exodia. How you’re wandering aimlessly.”

  “I didn’t say aimlessly, Kassandra.” Raul spoke with deliberate impatience. “Dal-, Bram, I knew you’d be close enough for us to travel a day and a half to see you. I needed to hear for myself all that has happened.”

  * * *

  Kassandra allows me to hold the baby. Gresham isn’t ready yet to be held by a father he doesn’t know. Walking? Yes, though it’s more of a lurching stumble. And he’s not talking yet, not even a mama, according to Raul. The boys are barely ten months apart. Two babies.

  In the midst of our self-conscious reunion Harmon has pitched his tent nearby. He holds a flap open and beckons us to enter. He offers his aid as shepherd to unharness the sheep and find them a place to graze. The women who were eager to coo over my sons—Mira, her friends, and Lydia—have disappeared. I glance around before I duck into the tent behind my family—my old family—who left Exodia a year ago in the darkest grief imaginable. Gresham knows nothing of the loss of a grandmother and five aunts. His only concern while we speak reverently of them is to totter around the tent and press his fingers through the holes.

  Eli cries and Kassandra turns away to nurse him. She sits back to back with Katie and braces herself against her sister as she gets as comfortable as she can to feed our son. A year apart and we are strangers again.

  “I saw it in the stars,” Raul begins, “that hundreds left the black city.” I nod, he continues, “Ten plagues, yes?”

  “Something like that,” I murmur. “I had to kill the Executive President’s son.” Kassandra tightens her hold
on the baby, keeps her eye on Gresham as he nears the tent’s doorway. A fissure of light stripes the entrance with dancing particles of dust. He draws his tiny hand back and forth through the light.

  I outline the year’s events: the tainted food, the rashes, the acid rain, the hail, the darkness that fell on the last full day in Exodia—the day I killed Jamie. How we crossed the condemned bridge.

  “They chased after you and fell from the bridge?”

  “I blew it up.”

  “They all died?”

  “All who Truslow sent. There could be another army he’ll send around, but we’ve been attacked by others.”

  Katie clucks her tongue for Gresham’s attention, draws him to her, and cuddles him in her lap. The favorite aunt. The only aunt on the Luna side.

  Raul is pensive. He taps his chin. “You don’t need to worry about Truslow. Tell me about these new attackers.”

  I recap their first appearance, Lydia’s kidnapping, our rescue mission, how their city is underground. I dare to ask him, “Do we need to worry about them attacking us again?”

  I trust that he’s seen the story in the sky. “No,” he answers. “They are vanquished.”

  I tell him about the hardships on this journey: the lack of food and water. I tell him how we’ve been saved from thirst and starvation and I dare to add my growing belief that we are in the safety and care of One who provides all that we need.

  Katie and Kassandra hold my sons with a stillness that unsettles me. The tent grows suddenly too warm, but Raul is pleased with me. His eyes shine moist with understanding. “Bram,” he says, comfortable with my original name, “I’m delighted to hear how the hand of God has rescued the Reds. I understand more from the stars. I know that God is greater than all the other gods.”