One by one, in utter silence, they gathered their things and climbed into their trucks. The engines spouted to life, belching smoke and oil.
The two women in the field didn’t move. They didn’t want to go. A couple of the men cursed at them. Still they didn’t move. None of the men dared to get out of their trucks, but finally, their eyes avoiding Caelyn, three of them climbed out of the vehicles, ran toward the women, grabbed them by the hair, and jerked them toward the trucks, throwing them into the back.
Spewing smoke and noise, their gearboxes grinding, the ancient vehicles bounced away, leaving the two women and the little girl standing in the middle of the field.
Caelyn watched them go, then fell down, her shoulders slumping, her hands trembling at her side. Turning, she motioned toward Ellie, who cried out as she scrambled to her mother and fell into her arms. Caelyn held her, brushed her hair back, then burst into sudden tears, her body shaking, her shoulders heaving, her breathing coming in sobbing gasps.
Gretta stood back, her mouth open, her eyes wide in wonder. “Oh, Caelyn, oh, Caelyn,” she repeated again and again. “Oh, Caelyn, how did you do that? I saw it, I felt it, but baby, I just don’t understand.”
Caelyn and her daughter held onto each other as they sat crying in the open field. Caelyn kept her eyes closed. It was just too much to bear. Holding Ellie, she rocked her back and forth, her vision blurred by salty tears.
Then she heard his voice.
She almost ignored it. She didn’t think it could be real.
He called out again, his voice drifting with the wind across the dry ground. “Caelyn! Caelyn, can you hear me? Ellie, it’s your daddy.”
Caelyn’s heart burst inside her chest. She stood and stared, tears burning her eyes and cheeks.
He called her name again. She whispered something, then wiped her hand across her face. Letting go of Ellie’s hand, she ran across the open field and fell into her husband’s arms.
“O that we had repented in the day that the
word of the Lord came unto us; for behold the land is cursed. . . . Behold, we are surrounded by demons, yea, we are encircled about by the angels of him who hath
sought to destroy our souls . . .”
—Helaman 13:36—37
Chapter Forty
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
t was time to go.
The apartment was dark now. A single candle burned in the living room, casting a dance of shadows across the floor and the walls. It was also cold, a hint of frost building on the corners of the windows. Sam stood at the kitchen window looking down. The others worked around him, gathering what they could. They were going to have to walk and they had to travel light, but there was little inside the small apartment that was going to help them on their journey anyway. Still, they packed up everything that made sense, working quickly now that it was time to go.
Sam didn’t pay any attention to the others as they collected what little food was left, a bundle of children’s clothes, a couple of tools, a few dollars cash. Ammon was stuffing an extra blanket inside a threadbare child’s sleeping bag when he looked up at Sam. His older brother had climbed onto the cracked kitchen counter and was kneeling at the window, looking straight down. His face was tense, his eyes moving, and Ammon immediately knew that something was wrong. He dropped the sleeping bag onto the sofa and walked toward him. “What’s up?” he asked, his heart skipping. Something inside him seemed to tighten up.
“It’s going to be a problem.”
Ammon almost laughed. “Pretty much everything’s a problem right now, man.”
The young lieutenant shook his head and motioned for Ammon to climb up. He easily pulled himself onto the counter and looked down. Most of his vision was taken up by the dirty brick wall of the nearest building, but by looking down and to the left, he could see the street below. It was getting dark and the shadows had already grown deep and full. He looked south. Dead cars. Lots of people. A couple of smoky fires on the street corner. The crowd seemed to cluster around in gangs now. It was cold. Most were wearing heavy clothing. Hooded faces. Tight circles of people around the fires, their shoulders touching. Lots of guns. Some were holstered, some were brandished. It seemed that everyone was armed.
Ammon shook his head in dismay. “Dude, looks like the Wild West down there.” He watched another moment, sucking his lip, then glanced at Sam. His brother was so comfortable with the army-issue handgun hanging at his side that he seemed to notice it little more than the belt around his waist. Ammon arched his back, the handgun they’d brought from Washington tucked uncomfortably beneath his jacket. Reaching to his side, he pulled it from its leather holster. It felt so heavy in his hand. “Sam, I’m not . . . you know . . . I’m not a soldier, like you, bro. I’m not all that experienced with a gun.”
“Not all that experienced? Dude, are you kidding me! Have you ever shot that thing?”
Ammon’s face burned. He knew that he was blushing.
Sam was smiling at him, the shadows playing with the lines around his mouth and his eyes. “Let’s not kid ourselves. When it comes to handling a weapon, you’re like a child.”
“Hey, Dad taught me a thing or two.” Ammon was only half defensive.
“Dad taught you not to shoot your brothers or stuff a loaded weapon inside your pants. I suspect that’s about all he had the time to teach.”
Ammon tossed the weapon to his other hand in a gesture of confidence. “I can handle this.”
Sam shook his head, his smile growing wider. “Sure you can, dude. You’re a regular Pistol Pete.”
“Pistol Pete was a basketball player, you conehead.” Every conversation between the brothers eventually degenerated into “dudes” and insults.
Sam turned more serious, watching Ammon with the gun. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“I know it will. I’m just saying, you know, if things get kind of ugly, I’m not so sure that you’ll want me on the front lines with this thing. I haven’t shot anyone for, you know, a long time now. I’m not sure that I’d know what to do.”
Sam leaned toward him, his face soft, his voice low. “Don’t worry about it, man. I’ll be there. Follow my lead. Take your cues from me.”
Ammon looked into his brother’s eyes, then turned back to the window and nodded toward the street corner. A group of dirty men had circled around two young women. Tall and slender, they looked familiar with the streets: tightly braided hair, short shirts, spike heels, and gaudy handbags. What could they be thinking? Ammon wondered in disbelief. He shook his head as the thugs closed around them, animals circling for the kill. Shaking with frustration, he clenched his jaw. Both of the women were on the ground now. “It’s a war out there,” he said.
Sam watched, feeling sick, then looked away. What he saw would have been impossible to even conceive of just a week before. “It’s going to be a little tough.”
“So what’s the plan, dude? We go out shooting? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”
Sam didn’t answer. He’d never seen the show.
“It’s getting worse every day,” Ammon said. “Every hour. It’s worse now than it was this morning. Lots worse than when we got here. I think they’ve finally figured out the police aren’t coming. No Red Cross. No National Guard. No firemen or army guys to save the day.”
“It didn’t take long for things to completely fall apart.”
Ammon watched through the window. For some inexplicable reason the thugs had let one of the women go. She stood, watched for a moment, seemingly offended, then turned and huffed away. A thick-armed man moved forward, gripped the second girl by the back of the neck, and pulled her caveman-like into a narrow alley, followed by his friends. Through the thin window, they could hear her screams, then lustful cheers.
“It won’t be like this everywhere,” Sam said, as if trying to convince himself. “It can’t be like this everywhere. Somewhere there is sanity.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ammon
forced a hopeful voice. “This place was like a war zone even when things were normal. But if we can get out of the city, get to where we’re going,” he thought of the stake they had selected on the outskirts of Chicago, “I think we’ll be okay.”
“One thing we know for certain. It won’t be worse.”
Azadeh came into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of cans out of the cupboard, leaving it completely empty, then disappeared into the back bedroom again. Sam and Ammon noted her long hair falling down her back, her trim waist underneath a skirt and black belt. “You know, I just don’t see us walking out of here without some issues,” Ammon whispered after they had watched her go. He nodded toward the back bedroom. “It’s going to be a problem. A problem for so many reasons.”
Sam scratched his head. “All the women will be targets.”
“We’ll all be targets. Some will just be a little easier to hit,” Ammon said. “There’s you. Me. A couple guns. Luke will be okay, but it’s going to be a while before he’ll be strong enough to help us in a fight. And that’s about it. Compared with . . . well, just look down there.”
Sam stared a long moment, nodded, then climbed down from the counter. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Fallujah. Tora Bora. I think both of them were worse.”
Ammon looked at him and laughed. “Really!” he exclaimed. “Because I’ve got to tell you, dude, from the look on your face, I find that a little hard to believe.”
Sam moved toward the front living room, then looked back. “Fallujah was worse. Certainly more deadly. But not as ugly. In that, you are right.”
Ammon sadly shook his head. “It’s hard to see it in our country.”
“Never thought it’d be like this over here.”
* * *
They waited, hoping the crowds on the streets would break up. They never did. So, finally, late at night, they just left.
They walked silently down the stairs, Sam in the lead, Ammon at the back. Luke followed Sam, moving on his own but walking slowly, putting each foot down tenderly and grasping onto the worn stair rail. Mary followed Sam, holding Kelly Beth’s hand so tight she squeezed her little fingers together; then came Azadeh and Sara, who were walking side by side.
It was very dark, almost cavelike, the stairs illuminated
only by the faint hint of starlight that shone through the tiny stairwell windows. But all of their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and they moved carefully but surely down the stairs. Pausing at the ground-floor landing, Sam held up his hand and listened, then turned to face the group.
The men had heavy backpacks. Sara had a smaller one, which she had tried to hide under a heavy jacket. All of the women were dressed in men’s clothes. Azadeh looked particularly ridiculous. Her hair was pulled back and hidden beneath an oversized baseball cap, Mary’s work jeans drowned her, and the baggy shirt hung down almost to her knees. The clothing helped, but just a little, for it was hard to hide her beauty, no matter what they did. Sara had tied her own hair up as well, and she had on comfortable jeans and hiking boots. Mary kept Kelly by her side, pulling on her shoulder to keep her close. The little girl was weak—it would take weeks to put back on the weight the cancer had stolen from her—but she moved with enthusiasm, her feet light. She didn’t understand what was going on, so, though she sensed the danger, she didn’t seem scared. Sam knew, because Mary had told him, how happy Kelly was with her mother’s new friends. Still, she tended to hang out near Ammon or Luke, sometimes reaching for their hands, sometimes crawling into their arms. Sam, on the other hand, seemed to scare her. He didn’t know why—his uniform, he suspected—but he could see the hint of suspicion in her eyes.
Sam checked the group a final time. “Okay,” he gave his last instructions, “remember to keep moving. Don’t stop regardless of what happens. Keep it two abreast. Stay close together, but not too close. Try not to bunch up too much—a group will draw more attention than two or three people traveling together. And don’t look at anyone. Anyone talks to you, ignore them and keep on moving, no matter what they say. Anyone gives us any trouble, let me do the talking.” He glanced at Ammon. “You’ve got Kelly, right?”
Ammon reached out for her hand. “Got her.” He smiled down.
“Luke, you stay with me. Mom, you stay with Mary. Azadeh . . .” Sam hesitated just a moment, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Azadeh, you understand the problem?”
She looked at him and nodded.
“Try not to let them see your eyes. Keep your head low. Keep your hair tucked up and don’t speak—that’s the last thing you want to do. If they recognize the accent, it will set them off. Stay by me. If I get distracted or have to deal with someone, then hang onto Luke.” He took a step toward them. “Keep on walking. Stay close. We’re going to be okay.”
The group looked at him and nodded. He was obviously their leader, and they were prepared to do anything he said.
Mary gestured toward the street that lay beyond the metal door. “Some of them have guns.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, they do.”
“If there’s any problems . . . ?”
“Don’t worry about it, Miss Dupree. I can take care of them.”
“Not all of them, Lieutenant Brighton.”
Luke put his hand on Mary’s arm and laughed. “Hey, look, I’ve got a plan. If anyone starts shooting, everyone jump behind me. I seem to be impervious to bullets. All of you hide behind me and I’ll take ’em for the team.”
Sara frowned. Sam laughed. Mary didn’t understand. Ammon slapped him on the back. “Good plan. I like it. You stay in front of me.”
Sam pulled the drinking tube on his CamelBak, took a sip, and gestured to the others. “The last thing we want to do is advertise the fact that we’ve got food and water, so tank up now,” he said. Everyone drank except for Mary and Sara, who insisted they weren’t thirsty, then tucked the drinking tubes away, hiding them beneath their clothes. Sam looked at them a final time. “Ready?” he asked.
“Go for it, baby,” Luke answered.
Sam turned and pulled back the metal door.
* * *
The streets were dark and smoky, both from the small fires on every corner and from the huge, high-rise fires that were burning downtown. The wind had shifted from the west, blowing cold air and smoke across the city. Exiting the apartment building, with its soot-covered brick and filthy hallways, Sam moved across the parking lot toward the street. The others followed in pairs, ten or fifteen feet between them. After crossing the cluttered parking lot, Mary looked back. This had been her home for almost thirty years. Will I ever come back here? she wondered. Something told her that she wouldn’t, and she sighed, half from nostalgia, half from relief.
Reaching the street, Sam turned south, the shortest distance out of the city. All around them, crowds huddled together: men and women, young and old. Where are all the children? Sam wondered with a chill. Some of the men stared at them as they passed. Sam had on his uniform, which seemed to help. Unlike back in D.C., when everyone had been asking him for help or information, here they seemed anxious to ignore him, letting him pass. Moving from the shadows of the buildings, the family walked across the street. An old man, his face lost in the utter blackness, stepped suddenly toward them, almost running across the street. Stopping in front of Sam, he turned, cursed and shouted, then turned and ran again. Sam didn’t slow but kept on walking. Stopping at the street corner, he looked up and tried to read the street signs, but it was too dark. Catcalls emerged now from the darkness. “Hey, there!” men called to Azadeh. “Come on over here, little girl. Got plenty more of this!” Azadeh kept her head low, barely looking up. Luke pulled her close, putting his arm around her.
“Little man gots himself a woman.” Bitter laughing from the dark. “Git over here, man-child. I’ll give you something you can show her later on!”
A group of young men drew near. Sam stepped closer to his mother. Someone spat. He felt the light spray on his face, warm and wet. A shot rang out farth
er north. The whites of half a dozen eyes moved in that direction. Mary moved up beside Sam and nodded quickly to show the way.
“What you doing with this soldier?” one of the young men sneered at her. “You go on. Get out of here.”
The little group turned and ran. Kennedy Avenue. Columbus Street. East Chicago Avenue. Sam could smell the city all around him: Ispat Island, the fuel tank farms, the railheads, U.S. steel—all were shut down now, but the smell of diesel and coal and filth still lingered in the air. Lake Michigan was behind them now. They came upon another corner. Another crowd was huddled in the middle of the street, chaotic, mean, and noisy, blocking their way. People turned toward them and started cursing. Sam felt a sick feeling roll inside him, his eyes moving desperately. Ammon jogged up and stopped beside him. “Take the alleyway,” he said. Sam thought, then nodded and turned into the alley. A couple of the strangers watched them disappear, then cut away from the group and followed. Moving into the deeper darkness, Sam pulled suddenly to the side and pushed against the wall, allowing the others to pass. “Keep moving,” he whispered to them.
Silence. Then heavy footsteps. Four men emerged from the darkness and stared at his family as they walked down the narrow alley. Sam watched them from his hiding place between two brick walls, the starlight just enough to illuminate their features. Dirty faces. Filthy clothes. They smelled of smoke and urine. “You see that white woman?” one of the older men sneered. “She don’t belong here. Gonna show her she shouldn’t be here.”
Sam stepped quietly out behind the man and pressed his gun against the back of his neck, the cold metal pushing against the thin skin that stretched over his hairy skull.
“You’re talking about my mother!” His voice was cold and deadly. The man put his hands out, choking on his laugh. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Sam would pull the trigger. The four men slowly turned around. Sam moved the weapon back and forth to cover them all. “On the ground!” he commanded. He was quick. He was efficient. He knew what he was doing, it was clear. “Down. Get your hands back. You boys know the drill.”
The Great and Terrible Page 138
