Aftermath

by LeVar Burton

  “Not yet,” Red whispered, grabbing his arm. “They’ll see you. They wouldn’t be too happy knowing they had to stop just so you could hop a ride. Wait until they get going again.”

  “What about you?” Leon asked. “You guys going?”

  Red shook his head. “Not this time. María and Edrick want to rest for a day before doing any more traveling. It wouldn’t be right to just leave them, so I said I’d stick around. Besides, I’m in no hurry to get anywhere.”

  Leon understood. Under different circumstances he would have done the same thing.

  With the log clear of the track, the engineers climbed back aboard the engine. There was a hiss as the train started to roll again.

  Red stuck out his hand. “I hope you find your mystery woman.”

  “Thanks,” Leon said, shaking hands. “I will.” He gave María and Edrick a quick hug and then slipped out from behind the bush. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” Red grinned.

  Leon smiled and then raced to catch the train. It still wasn’t going very fast so he was able to slide open a door on one of the boxcars and climb in. Once in, he leaned out the doorway to wave a final goodbye. Red and the others waved back. He stayed in the doorway until they faded from sight, and then turned away. He was going to miss them.

  Stepping away from the door, Leon waited for his eyes to adjust to the boxcar’s dark interior. The boxcar was empty; he was the only passenger. It was just as well, he really wasn’t in the mood for company. Sitting down along the wall, he thought about what might be waiting for him at the end of the line in Chicago.

  Next stop Peoria, Illinois. He was almost there.

  Chapter 24

  Fog blew off the river and drifted chill and damp into town, carrying with it the smells of the Mississippi: fish, rotting wood, vegetation and black bottom mud. The fog rolled ghostlike across the streets, pooling in the low-lying areas, coating houses, trees and cars in misty gray cotton candy. The town appeared as a ghost town, a Brigadoon from the past, empty, quiet. A place where spirits walked. A village not for the living.

  Amy Ladue walked through the deserted, foggy streets, following a voice only she could hear. She turned right, left, and right again as she headed toward the river, answering the call of a siren’s cry. A siren with the voice of her mother. The words of that voice were emblazoned in neon across her brain. Help me … I’m in Chicago.

  Reaching the river, she turned left again and followed the shoreline. The fog was thicker near the water. It welcomed Amy in its wet, clinging embrace as it soaked through her clothing, plastering her hair flat against her head. She shuddered slightly from the chill but pushed on, her sight fixed on the iron skeleton, which rose from the mist like the bones of some prehistoric beast.

  The bridge that spanned the Mississippi River at Louisiana, Missouri, still stood, its structure untouched by either earthquake or war. The road passing over the bridge, U.S. Highway 54, was still used by those with the luxury of motor vehicles and by farmers with horse- and mule-drawn carts. On this particular evening it was also used by a little girl searching for her mother.

  Amy crossed the bridge and entered the state of Illinois. Just beyond the bridge a rusted, bullet-ridden sign told her that the town of Pike lay just up the road. She couldn’t see the town, even when she put her hand over her eyes and squinted. The fog lay as a thick blanket over the land. She could see only the road and a few feet to either side of it.

  She had just passed the sign when sounds of movement came from the darkness to her right. The rustling of tall grasses and leaves, the snapping of sticks. Amy froze, afraid, suddenly aware of how truly alone she was. She cocked her head and listened, trying to identify the sounds. But she was a city girl, used to the sounds of an urban metropolis. The country was different, with different noises. Some, like those she heard now, were terribly frightening, conjuring up images of wild animals and slobbering beasts.

  Amy turned and looked behind her, regretting that she had sent Sammy away. The dog could have protected her from whatever was lurking in the darkness. Too late now. Sammy was probably sound asleep on Sister Rose’s front porch dreaming doggie dreams. She was alone.

  The sounds drew closer. Crackle. Crackle. Snap. Amy took a step back. Glancing around, she searched for something to defend herself with but found nothing. She remained unarmed, vulnerable.

  As she watched, the fog parted to reveal the source of the noise. It was a dog. A big dog. Not a friendly, smiling, tail-wagging pooch, like Sammy, but a half-starved, matted-fur mongrel with fangs bared and evil yellow eyes.

  The dog stepped onto the road and stood with its legs spread and head lowered. It growled at her, a growl that came from deep within its throat, threatening, menacing. A growl that meant business.

  Amy took a fearful step backward. The dog lowered its head, the yellow eyes tracking her like twin gun sights. The growling grew louder.

  “Nice doggie,” she said, knowing that the dog was anything but nice. A ridge of fur stood up along the mongrel’s back, making it seem less like a dog and more like a werewolf.

  A second dog emerged from the darkness and flowed out onto the road. And a third. Three dogs, all wild, part of a pack. Savage. No one’s pets. Living off the land. Hunting as a group. Killing as a group. Killing …

  Amy swallowed hard, feeling her throat tighten with dread. The other two dogs—one brown, one black—crept forward to join the first. They also growled at her and bared their teeth. Big teeth. Sharp. Teeth capable of ripping great chunks of flesh and breaking bones. Amy’s flesh. Her bones.

  Amy began to tremble as she realized there would be no talking nice to the animals before her. Nor would a threat work. She could stomp her feet and yell all she wanted, it would make no difference. If anything, a sudden movement would only anger the dogs, cause them to attack.

  Don’t be afraid. Don’t show fear. Dogs can tell if you’re afraid. They can smell your fear. But Amy couldn’t help it. She was afraid. Terrified.

  She looked around for a place to run, somewhere to hide where she would be safe. Amy knew she couldn’t make it back to town, even if she ran her fastest. The dogs would be upon her before she could reach the bridge. They would sink their teeth deep into the back of her legs and drag her down. Eat her all up.

  She thought about running for the forest. Maybe she could find a tree to climb, get high enough off the ground to be safe. But even if she could outrun the dogs to the forest, she would still have to find a tree she was able to climb. She’d never make it.

  Nowhere to run. No weapons. She could only stand there as the dogs slowly moved toward her, watching as they spread out, working as a team to circle her. Amy wanted to scream, but she had no voice. She wanted to wave her arms, but they were frozen to her sides. She could only watch knowing that death was moments away.

  Suddenly, a noise came from behind her—faint but growing louder. It was the clackity, clackity, chug, chug of an engine. The dogs must have heard the noise too, for they paused, frozen in place like a photograph. A painting of terror.

  The sound of the engine came closer.

  Clackity, clackity, chug, chug.

  The glow of headlights appeared in the darkness, piercing the night and cutting through the swirling vapors of fog. The road was suddenly basked in the brilliance of light—sweet, wonderful light that pushed back the night and silenced the growl of the three mongrel dogs. They stood for a moment, confused, perhaps even a little fearful, caught in the piercing brightness of the light. And then with hateful glares they abandoned their prey and fled into the darkness beyond the road.

  Amy whispered a short prayer of thanks and stepped to the side of the road as an old farm truck rattled into view, emerging from the fog like something out of the past. The truck’s headlights caught her in their brightness and blinded her, freezing her in place like a helpless little fawn. The vehicle slowed to a stop; its engine chugged, coughed
and backfired. Someone inside the truck’s cab leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. A voice came from the darkness.

  “Hey there. You need a ride?”

  Amy didn’t move, made no attempt to reply. The voice reached out to her again.

  “I’m talking to you. Do you need a ride?” A flashlight was switched on, illuminating the interior of the truck. In the dim glow she could see the man behind the voice. He was old and gray-headed, his thin face cracked and wrinkled from years of toiling in the hot sun. Amy thought the man might be a farmer, even though she had never met a real farmer before.

  “Make up your mind. I don’t have all night,” the man called. “You need a ride or not?”

  Amy was leery to accept the farmer’s offer, her memories of the bald-headed man in St. Louis still fresh in her mind. But if she turned down the ride, she would be alone again … alone with the dogs.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, finding her voice.

  “I’m taking a load of corn to Peoria,” came the reply.

  Peoria? Amy tried to pinpoint the town of Peoria in her mind. She had seen maps before, even a map of Illinois, but hadn’t paid much attention to them.

  “Is that near Chicago?” she asked, unable to remember where in Illinois Peoria was, if it was even in Illinois.

  The old man whistled in surprise. “Honey, you’ve got a long walk if you’re thinking about going all the way to Chicago. A very long walk. What you going to Chicago for? You lose something?”

  Amy nodded. “My mother.”

  The old man looked at her for a few seconds, then said, “Peoria’s about halfway to Chicago, if that’s what you want to know. You’ll be a lot closer there than where you’re standing right now.”

  Amy thought it over. Halfway to Chicago. She would be almost there. “Okay, I’ll ride.”

  The old man opened the passenger door and motioned for her to climb in. Amy was taking a risk, but she would rather take her chances with a farmer than with the dogs. Besides, her mother needed her.

  Climbing up into the cab of the truck, she closed the door behind her. The farmer shifted the gears, the engine coughed twice and they started down the road.

  Once inside the truck she turned to look at the old man. He didn’t appear dangerous; at least she didn’t think he did. He looked more like somebody’s grandfather and probably was. As Amy studied the man, she became aware of the smells inside the truck, his smells, farm smells: the deep, earthy aroma of hay and manure, the lingering fragrance of tobacco smoke. She noticed the tips of several cigars protruding from the breast pocket of his overalls. There was also an odor that was like gasoline but different.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not polite to stare.”

  Caught off guard, Amy quickly lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Apology accepted.” He laughed. “You got a name, or did you lose that in Chicago too?”

  “Amy Ladue,” she said, raising her eyes.

  “Amy. That’s a pretty name,” he said. “My name’s Roy Fletcher.”

  “Are you a farmer?”

  “Yup. Been a farmer all my life.” He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it with a lighter. A cloud of pungent smoke filled the cab. Amy wrinkled her nose but didn’t cough.

  “How about you?” he asked. “You a farmer too?”

  She shook her head, but then realized that he was watching the road and hadn’t seen her. “No. I’m from the city.”

  “Chicago?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “And your mother lives in Chicago?”

  She nodded and then quickly said yes.

  “What part of Chicago?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, suddenly wishing he would change the subject. “I’ve never been there before.”

  “But you’re going there now? All by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  Roy turned and looked at her, perhaps wondering if she was telling the truth. Maybe he thought she was lying to him, but she wasn’t. Her mother really did live in Chicago. Amy knew it, but she didn’t want to explain how she knew. To keep from answering any more questions she changed the subject.

  “Are farmers rich?”

  He snorted, then laughed. “Rich? That’s a good one. No, darling, farmers aren’t rich, at least none that I know of.”

  “But you’ve got a truck.”

  “This old thing? Hell, I’ve had this truck for years. It would have up and died long ago if I didn’t spend all my time tinkering with it. When the gas prices went through the roof I fiddled with the engine some, made it where it would run on cornahol.”

  “Cornahol?” Amy asked.

  He puffed his cigar. “That’s what I call the stuff; they’ve probably got other names for it. It’s like gasoline only I make it out of corn, sort of like the shine whiskey my grandfather used to make.”

  “Can you drink cornahol?” Amy asked.

  Roy laughed again. A pleasant, healthy laugh. Amy liked the sound of it. “I reckon you could drink it if you wanted to,” he replied. “I never do. Anything that will keep this old truck runing, and clean grease off my tools, can’t be good for you. But maybe I should try some. Maybe it would make me run as fast as this truck. What do you think?”

  Amy giggled, picturing the old farmer running down the road, his belly full of cornahol, a cloud of exhaust smoke coming out of his butt. Still smiling, she leaned against the door and stared out the window, watching as the willowy wisps of fog danced past the truck. Outside, the night was chill and spooky; inside the truck everything was warm and cozy. She yawned, listening to the rumble of the truck’s engine and Farmer Roy humming a song she didn’t know. Before they had gone another mile down the road she was fast asleep.

  She awoke with the sun in her eyes, awakened from a dream by the truck bouncing over a rough patch of road. Amy didn’t know where she was at first and this caused her to have a mild anxiety attack. Her heart pounding, she sat up and looked around.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” Roy said, offering her a smile. “The road’s kind of rough through these parts.” Amy relaxed a little and smiled back.

  “That’s okay.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes and stared out the windshield. The land was flat and featureless, empty fields dotted with an occasional tree or farmhouse. “Where are we?”

  “We’re on State Road 100, just north of Beardstown.”

  That information didn’t really tell her anything. Farmer Roy must have read her thoughts, for he added, “We’re about halfway to Peoria.”

  “Oh,” Amy said, trying to work the math out in her head. They were halfway to Peoria, and Peoria was halfway to Chicago, which meant that a fourth of her trip was through. Only a fourth? She frowned. Chicago was still a long ways away.

  “You want some breakfast?” He tapped the paper sack on the seat beside him. “There’s a thermos of coffee in there and some buttermilk biscuits, if you’re interested. I made them myself.”

  Amy passed on the coffee, but she did take one of the biscuits. They were a little stale, but still tasted good. She would have had more than one, but it was kind of hard eating them dry and she didn’t like coffee. She had just forced down the last of the biscuit when she noticed a string of small ponds in a field off to the right.

  “Oh, look. Fish ponds,” she said, pointing out the window. “I wonder what kind of fish they have.”

  “Dead ones,” Roy replied. “Those aren’t fish ponds, darling. They’re bomb craters.”

  “Bomb craters?”

  He nodded. “Yup. One of the worst battles of the war was fought right here in these fields. Nearly ten thousand soldiers lost their lives in just one week of fighting. Can you imagine that? That’s more soldiers than there are people in most of the towns around here.”

  “What happened?” Amy asked, trying to imagine so many soldiers fighting at the same time.

  “Sweetheart, I really don’t like talking about it—damn fool thing,
war—but since you asked I’ll tell you. The fighting started when General Dixon’s men seized control of the Mississippi River between Clarksville and Quincy—”

  “Who’s General Dixon?” Amy interrupted.

  “General Wyatt Dixon was the leader of the minority soldiers; they’re the ones who wanted to change the government, make it where all people were treated the same—no matter what color their skin was. His army was known as Dixon’s Militia. Pretty tough bunch of boys, if you ask me. They had a lot of heart.

  “Anyway, the Militia had seized control of the river and they weren’t letting anything through. Now this didn’t sit too well with the old government. The Mississippi River is an important supply line, always has been, always will be. They didn’t like having that supply line closed off, so they sent in several army units to reopen it.

  “The first battle took place just south of Hannibal, Missouri, at Lock and Dam No. 22. The government tried to knock out the Militia’s positions with air strikes, but the Militia fought back with tanks, rockets and artillery. The battle lasted for thirty-six hours and was one heck of a fight. There were so many explosions going off the night sky looked like the Fourth of July. When the battle was over the Militia still had control of the river.”

  Roy pulled a new cigar out of his pocket and lit it. “The government wasn’t about to give up just because they lost one battle. No ma’am. They figured if the army couldn’t get the river back the navy could, so they sent a bunch of warships up the river to fight the Militia.”

  “What kind of warships?” Amy asked.

  “Six Coast Guard cutters and two dozen U.S. Navy river patrol boats. Damnedest thing you’d ever want to see. Kind of funny in a way. Here’s all these boats sailing up the river like it was some kind of parade, their decks filled with soldiers.”

  He laughed. “My neighbors and I went down to the river to watch the ships go by, packed ourselves a picnic lunch and took turns waving at the soldiers. Not that we were for the government, mind you. Truth was most of us didn’t care who won the war. We figured once the fighting was over things would be pretty much the same as they were before, no matter which side came out on top. Best not to get in someone else’s fight if you can avoid it. Know what I mean?”