Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “Yeah,” DJ nodded, “She deals with it, I know she and her husband weren't on particularly good terms when the shit went down, but she had a daughter. She’s being real strong, but . . .” DJ started for the door.

  Skybox thought for a second, “Hey, DJ—where in Tennessee were they coming from?’

  “Memphis, sir. Why?”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Harris Springs, Mississippi

  Scott saw Kaylie heading down the gangway with her friends. There was always so much to do, but some days you just had to rediscover some of what was lost. He wanted that for Kaylie, especially. She was still a kid, after all.

  Today he would extend that indulgence to himself, too. He went to the tender garage. He slipped into his padded cycling gear, slung on a go-pack, checked his weapons and mounted his Trek racing bike. His head was full: thoughts of the pending rescue mission in the Gulf; Bobby’s journey south; the storm; the virus; the Messengers . . . the list went on. He needed to clear some space.

  He did a circuit around town then headed toward the marina where he could hop a ferry ride to the far side. The drawbridges were rarely lowered anymore unless farmers radioed ahead that they were bringing supplies, or the trade crews were heading out. Nothing as unscheduled as this bike ride warranted the risk. He told old Ben—the man who ran the ferry—that he’d be back in a few hours.

  “No problem, Scott,” he replied, “I’ll keep an eye out for you ‘til dark.”

  Scott doubted he’d be out that long; his riding time had been severely limited since the CME, and his endurance had suffered. The conditions of the roads were deteriorating quickly; besides the trash, downed tree limbs, leaves and pine straw now covered the roads. Grass was also beginning to reclaim the paved surfaces. There was so little traffic now, he guessed it would only be months before the land reclaimed it all, especially with spring here and summer on its way. Scott leaned down, found the right gear and hammered out a familiar pace.

  He considered his route based on what seemed safest. First, he would take Hwy 50, then decide on his next move from there. Muscles that had not been recently tested began to wake up. “Fuck, that hurts,” he groaned. But soon, the miles began to fly by. He knew he was supposed to stay close, but he needed this. He picked up on the familiar smells of the late spring day, along with some new ones. Turning off the main road, he took a road that was even more familiar than all the rest.

  Bartos wouldn’t be happy he was leaving the so-called “AG safe zone.” Tough, he thought as the burned-out hulk of his old family cottage came into view. The sight still filled him with anger and sadness. While it was just a building, it had represented so much more to him and his family. He dreaded his brother Bobby ever seeing it like this. It will break his heart. Barely slowing, he pedaled on past, keeping to the road bordering the black water of the bayou.

  Thinking of Bobby made him wonder how his brother was doing—where was he now, and should he tell Kaylie that he was fairly sure her mom was gone? She would hate him for keeping it from her, but he wasn’t sure it was true, nor could he see any benefit to telling her at this moment. He suspected she understood the situation better than he let on.

  His time on the bike had been meant to clear his mind, but today he was struggling. His eyes kept sweeping side to side, looking for dangers. He was well aware of how desperate many were now. Nearing the end of the next road, he saw a small paved lane. He had seen it countless times, but had never actually paid attention it, nor could he remember ever taking it. It was narrow and rough asphalt, about as good as all the rest now. His desire to discover overcame his caution, and he headed down the new route. The road curved through abandoned farmlands, several fallow, awaiting crops that would probably never again be planted.

  As his Garmin noted twenty-two miles, he noticed the road he was on did not even show up on the little device’s map. He considered turning back toward town. He stopped and downed most of a water bottle. His ears picked up the faint sound of an animal, and removing his helmet, he turned his head to hone in on the sound. It was louder now: bleating and the tinkling jingle of bells. Someone here has goats, he thought. He walked the bike a dozen yards and caught glimpses of the little gray and white goats frolicking near an unpainted wood house. It was more of a shed than a house, really, but Scott’s attention was now on the black man sitting on the porch of the house.

  “Ease yoself on ova, young fella.”

  Scott saw no weapon, and the man’s words didn’t seem threatening. He propped the bike against a fencepost, stepped out of his cycling shoes, and walked barefoot toward the man. “Afternoon,” he said warmly.

  “How ya doin? Name’s Roosevelt, Roosevelt Jackson.”

  “Scott,” he replied, “it’s a pleasure.”

  The man looked ancient: dark, wrinkled skin and wispy, wild, white hair surrounded two bright and piercing eyes. Do not underestimate this man, Scott thought. “How’d you get so lucky to have the name of two presidents?”

  “Only named for one president, the other came wit me from my pa,” Roosevelt laughed deeply at that.

  Scott shook the outstretched hand and took a seat on the steps leading up to the porch. “I wasn’t aware anyone was still living down this road. You’ve been here the whole time?”

  “I’s been heah purt much all ma life,” the man nodded, “born right ova dair in that back room. I don’t get out much, need to head to town sometime soon and get some staples, but mosely I stays right chere. Just me and all the odder animals.”

  Scott had to tell the man that the town didn’t exist anymore. “Roosevelt, are you aware the power went out worldwide, nearly a year ago?”

  “Naw, suh, can’t rightly say I do . . .”

  Scott looked at the man with pure admiration, “I’m guessing by the lack of power lines you never even had electricity.”

  “Nah, no need fo it. I seen it when I wint tuh town. Seen it when I joined th’Army, sent me all over the world. I seen electricity and a whole lots mo’. Whole lots mo’ . . . stuff I don’t never care to see again.”

  “You’re a veteran? A soldier?”

  The old man spat something in the direction of an old coffee can beside the porch. “Nothin’ special, son, lots o’ boys did, lots of stupid runnin’ round back din. Some on our side, some on their’s. All fightin’ over this li’l scrap o’ sumpin or somebody else’s. Killin’ each otha for their insignificant li’l kingdoms. Kingdoms o’ sorrow, that’s all dat was. I don’t talk ‘bout it, not no mo’.”

  Roosevelt seemed pretty firm on that, so Scott let it go. “People have gotten pretty desperate out there since the power went out, lots have died. You haven’t had any problems out here?”

  The man laughed to show a nearly toothless grin, “Didn’t say I ain’t had problems. Few boys came sneakin round . . . purt sure one was escaped from a road gang. Best thang ‘bout not having nuttin’, ain’t nobody wants to steal it.”

  “So, they left you alone?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . well, dat one needed a bit more encourgement, so I shot ‘im and let ‘im take it up with the hogs over yonda. His head prolly still in nair. The other one turned out, too. He weren’t a bad guy, he was messed up a bit in da head. He don’t talk none, but I gives him a li’l bit o’ food ever now and again, den he leaves on his own. He leaves quick, dat one do, maybe wonring if ole’ Roosevelt gonna feed him to the pigs, too,” he chuckled at that.

  “You fed one of them to the hogs? Roosevelt, remind me not to get on your bad side,” Scott chuckled comfortably in return. He liked this old man.

  “Naw, you fine, Mr. Scott . . . anybody comes here wearing a outfit like dat, ridin’ a bike, can’t be up ta too much bad. ’Sides . . . I got a feelin ’bout you. Gotta good feelin’. The good Lord gotchou workin’ on sumpin’ mighty important, don’t he? You got de signs. Ole’ Roosevelt can tell.”

  Scott wasn’t sure what to make of the man, but looking around the homestead, he saw he seemed to have everyth
ing he needed: chickens, goats, hogs—even beehives in a neat row. A small washbasin full of greens that looked native to the area was on the table. This man lived in balance with nature. The world provided in proportion to the effort he put forth. “I suppose I am involved in something important, and I could really use your help.”

  The man grinned from ear to ear, “Well, come on inside, and lit’s talk it over.”

  Several hours later, Scott patted his new friend on the shoulder, promising to come back. Roosevelt had shown him his small house and around most of the farm. It was compact in acreage but impressive in output. Scott felt this man had more practical knowledge than any farmer, hunter or fisherman he had ever met. His bushcraft skills seemed part Army Ranger and part Apache Scout. He had been married, was now widowed, had raised four children and, sadly, buried two. The other two lived elsewhere having retired from lifetimes of military service.

  He had taught himself how to read, then how to write. Here was a man who was utterly self-sufficient: who calmly lived his life on the edge of survival without ever realizing it. Scott struggled to process it all; this genius had been sitting here peacefully, just a few miles away from him, all along. Scott realized that while he may be a leader in the community, Roosevelt should be king.

  “Roosevelt, there may be some really bad people heading this way. If that happens, you know you can come to town and take shelter with us.”

  “I’s don’t take help easily, Mr. Scott, but if the Lord says go, I’ll come knocking.”

  Scott nodded respectfully. “Is there anything you need, Mr. Roosevelt? Next time I come out, I can bring it.”

  “Naw, naw . . . dat’s awful nice o’ ya, but sounds like you guys ain’t got much to spare. You best hang on to what you have.” He started back up the rickety steps to the porch. “Course now, if you could find some of dem li’l hard lemony drop candies . . . I could prolly find a good trade for dat. I miss me some lemon candies,” he grinned wide once more.

  “I’ll see what I can do, friend.”

  Scott pedaled back toward the town, struggling to reach it before dark. He knew he would be back to see Roosevelt. He had much, much more to learn.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Finally, a day off! Kaylie and DeVonte had been planning this trip to the beach all week. It wasn’t a full day off, but none of the small group was complaining. With the never-ending lists of tasks each had just to help everyone stay alive, anything resembling recreation was rare and greatly appreciated.

  Abe, Angel and several other of the “young ones” had joined them. Preacher Jack was even along, though he sat in the old lifeguard chair sipping a beer and reading. The ocean water was unusually clear, though still a little cooler than Kaylie preferred.

  Abe kept looking at her strangely and made her glad she had the Aquatic Goddess t-shirt over her swimsuit. Angel and DeVonte were closer to shore. One of the other girls, Diane, was saying something to her about a ghost. Kaylie rolled her eyes to herself. “I don’t believe in ghosts, that’s just nonsense,” she responded dismissively.

  “No, Kaylie, not that kind of ghost. It’s this shadow man thing people keep seeing around. He’s there one minute and gone the next. Just seems to vanish.”

  “Right . . . does he fly off? Or just step into another dimension?”

  “Fine, don’t believe me.” Diane pouted slightly before forging ahead. “No one seems to have gotten a good look at him, and he never speaks.”

  “Sounds like someone found Bartos’ moonshine out there in the swamp if you ask me.”

  Diane nodded. “Could be . . . I don’t really know. I do know people are feeling pretty freaked out. They say his head looks all messed up.”

  “I think maybe they’re messed up, Diane,” Kaylie said soberly. She looked out at the horizon and, slowly, a memory began to surface. Something Kaylie felt she should recall—the man she thought she saw on the beach? No, something else.

  Just as the memory was forming, Angel came up behind her, interrupting the thought. “Hey, girl, DeVonte and I are heading back up. Didn’t think you wanted to be left here with the big guy,” she winked and gestured with her head towards Abe.

  Kaylie knew whom she meant immediately. “He’s harmless,” she paused for a moment before laughing, “but yeah, I’d rather not.”

  “That boy has got you in his sights, girl,” Angel teased.

  “Kinda like DeVonte has you in his?” The two were obviously a couple now, and DeVonte overheard and grinned.

  “She knew a good thing when she saw it,” he laughed, then added, “Not sure yo’ man DJ gonna be able to take ole’ Abe in a fight, Kay. That boy is big. Unless your guy’s been working out and stuff. What was it DJ does again?”

  “He’s an epidemiologist—or he will be.”

  DeVonte cracked a crooked smile, “And what is that again?”

  “DeVonte, do you know anything?” she laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. “You do understand what the science of classifying living things is?”

  “You mean racism?” He laughed at his own clever joke.

  “Oh, God,” Kaylie laughed too at the uncomfortable joke. She loved DeVonte in her own, sisterly way. “Biology, goober . . . all life on our planet is divided into kingdoms—classified life forms. There used to be just two: plants and animals. Now there are five or six, depending on the school of thought. They cover all forms of life, from the very simple to the very complex. DJ’s work is mainly in a subphylum of bacteria. One that covers infectious disease origins. He also works with viruses and parasitic agents. Basically, he studies the origins of the life itself . . . how it evolved on its own, or in other non-human hosts.” Angel and DeVonte both looked impressed. “He may not be able to defeat Abe in a fair fight, but I’m pretty sure he could out-think him,” she concluded.

  Abe looked up from whatever had his attention and over at the three friends. He smiled and gave a small wave.

  “Okay, time to go,” Angel said.

  Glancing over, she saw Jack had fallen asleep in the sun. He was already beginning to turn pink. “Let me wake up the preacher, we don’t want the old guy getting sun stroke,” she smiled fondly in the man’s direction. “I need to run something by him anyway. I’ll catch up in a sec.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Mississippi River Confluence, Arkansas

  It had taken four more days to get to the Mississippi River. They had lost time on one of the many switchbacks of the lower Arkansas River when it narrowed and split into multiple tributaries. They had pulled the boats up onto a wide sandbar. Bobby was showing Jacob how to fish with a handline, and Jordan was using the radio as Bobby had shown her. She scanned the channels, listening to various reports from and about the Messengers who were now heading south along the Mississippi River. The broadcasts were heart-wrenching: chaotic and ghastly in their detail. If Jordan had had any remaining doubts about fleeing her home, they were now gone.

  With the help of the broadcasts, she was piecing together where the Messengers may be and marking spots on the river map. Jacob dropped two fish in the sand in front of her. The large catfish flopped about, desperate to be back in the water. The boy was beaming from ear to ear. “Did you catch those?” she asked with a broad smile.

  He held up one finger.

  “Which one?”

  He pointed to the larger of the fish. She hugged her son excitedly and praised him. Looking over at Bobby, she mouthed a silent thank-you.

  She deftly cleaned and filleted the fish, cooking them on hot rocks by the river. As they ate, she showed Bobby the map. “They’re somewhere near the White River which runs parallel to the Arkansas for a good while, then joins the Mississippi. Basically, they’re not far from where we are.”

  Bobby shoved the last bit of fish into his mouth before responding. “Let’s hope they are on the north side of it. That way, we’re divided by both rivers and the land in between. Otherwise, they may be right on our heels. Not many roads through here, s
o it’ll be slow going for them, and no towns to speak of in that stretch. It’s pure wilderness, so water and food will be a problem for them.”

  “Some of the reports are coming from people on the other side of the river,” she said pointing to spots she had marked.

  “Those areas have highways and roads. If I had to guess, I’d say they got split up during the Memphis attacks. Any vehicles remaining probably crossed the river to the east side closer to Memphis, then headed south.”

  “I thought we were crossing the river, too. What if they’re already ahead of us?”

  “It’s possible, but this is not a developed area, on either side, and we can go south on the Mississippi much faster than what we’ve been doing so far. I’m not sure it will be fast enough . . . Scott suggested the idea, but it is slow. He could probably do five times what we can on his damn bike.”

  Her eyes met his, “What are you saying?”

  “I think we need help. We can stay on the river, but we won’t be gaining much time on those already on the other side. It’ll also take us way too long to get to the coast. Besides, the river goes through some rough areas and ends in New Orleans, which is definitely not where we want to show up. We need to go south as fast as possible, maybe to Vicksburg, then head inland and find another way to get to Harris Springs. If possible, ahead of the Messengers.”

  She looked at the man’s trembling hand with its black cross tattoo. “Vicksburg must be a hundred or more miles away. You think we can stay ahead of them for that long? It’ll take us several days to go that far.”

  Bobby was aware that she was watching his hand, and he forcibly willed it to stop shaking. “Maybe, but the Mississippi River has a much stronger current than the Arkansas. It’ll probably push us faster than we can paddle. I would say three or four days, tops—but it will also be more dangerous. That current is not something we want to fool around with.”