“We wait,” Colonel Apollyon said, sitting back in his chair. “We wait for helicopters. We set up a perimeter and hope they come out eventually. And we wait for word from anyone who will have seen them.”
Days turned into weeks. I got put on clerical duty—retyping reports and filing them. I spent my leisure time—which was considerable—playing pool and flirting with office clerks. Finally the Colonel called me back to his office.
“One of our spies in a town called Clarksville has reported that he has seen the two of them at a known loyalist training camp called Fort Campbell. We have a company of soldiers in trucks headed that direction, and they will arrive in about five hours. We will meet them there, encircle the camp and go in at night. With luck, we’ll have Infinity captured before breakfast.”
I looked at my father, so confident in his plan, and wished I could be as confident. Back to ToC
16. out of the frying pan
EVANGELIST: WESTERN KENTUCKY: DAY 769
Pilgrim was far from ready for what the road held in store for her. But I had run out of time; we’d both run out of time. I’d received word that I was needed up north. I’d also learned from a contact inside the Coalition base in south Ohio that they were making a move to capture Pilgrim. I knew why; as tough and rational as Father was usually, he’d always had a soft spot for his daughter. They were hoping to take advantages of those strong feelings and use her against him.
So not only did I know that it was time to go, I knew that we had to keep moving for the foreseeable future. After all, it’s harder to hit a moving target. Pilgrim would just have to learn what she needed to learn on the road; the school of hard knocks, my dad always called it.
We got out of Fort Campbell the morning of June 12 and headed northwest toward St. Louis across western Kentucky and southern Illinois. As the crow flew, it was 265 miles to our destination, but I had no intention of flying like a crow. Alone, I could have made the trip in about 10 days. But I knew that every day I spent with her was another chance to teach her something that would keep her alive, so I didn’t hurry. What I did know that was important was to keep the Coalition in the dark about our whereabouts. That meant as little human contact as possible. That also meant a roundabout path to St. Louis. I figured about 17 days for the trip.
It actually took 19 days, but even so, I was impressed by how well Pilgrim did. The weak little girl I’d enticed out of that prison camp was rapidly disappearing as she packed on muscle on the trail. She was a sponge, listening intently as I pointed out animal nests, showed her how to make traps or showing her the marks that a bear made on a tree. I only had to tell her once what she needed to do and she did it. And she never complained. Once a piece of jagged metal cut her hand when we were crossing a walking bridge. I cleaned it, added some Neosporin ointment that I kept with me for such occasions, and bandaged it. And I never heard a squeak out of her.
I still, however, got the feeling that she wanted to go with me when I left for up north. But she never said it. Her pleading in the cabin was the last time she verbalized her desire. In a different world, if she wasn’t 17, the daughter of The Secretary and the person I was sworn to protect, I might have taken her up on it. More and more, I was looking at her less as a burden and more as a partner.
I used an old atlas that I had scrounged from an abandoned bookstore to mark our progress. I kept off the main highways but we ran parallel to them. It took us about a week to get to the area around Paducah, in what used to be Kentucky. I started to suggest that we take a day to rest, but she seemed fresher than ever, and there were signs of combat in the area, so we pushed on.
She shot her first deer outside Vienna, and I taught her how to dress it. We didn’t have time to dry the meat, so she and I traded the hide and fresh meat we had—with the exception of some select parts—to a family who looked like they were about to starve. In exchange, we got her an old rifle and several books from their library. One was Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain and the other was an encyclopedia Letter S. I wanted her to read up on the area, so I hoped the encyclopedia could tell her something about St. Louis. Last but not least, I also got her her own Bible and took mine back from her.
Despite her protests, we took a day off when we got outside of Pinckneyville. I wanted to give her body a chance to recuperate, as well as the opportunity to read the books. After she read them, we talked.
“Right before the Event, the population of St. Louis proper was about 300,000. The area around it made up close to two million,” I said. “When the Event came, there were only two big U.S. cities that weren’t affected by the EMP. Those were Minneapolis/St. Paul and St. Louis. Because of that, and because St. Louis is right on the Missouri and Mississippi rivers and near the Ohio Rivers, it became the center of the Midwest. They’ve got operating streetcars, lights, even TV there. And hot showers! And of course, the population has tripled.”
“When were you there last?” she asked.
I scratched my chin. “I was there right before the Event, and then was there just about four months ago. Because they still have power and electronics, they’ve been scrambling to develop manufacturing there—radios, rifles, refrigeration—all the Rs.”
Pilgrim smiled. “No fighting?”
I shrugged. “Don’t think so. But that was four months ago. The city fathers had a truce between the local militia under a guy named Ajax and the Missouri National Guard. St. Louis was declared an open city, regardless of what happened in Illinois or in Missouri.”
“Sounds pretty nice,” Pilgrim said, grinning. “I can’t remember the last time I had a hot bath.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, that’s how it was four months ago. Let’s see what four months have brought us.”
On the afternoon of July 1 we got to the outskirts of East St. Louis. In years past, it has been a poorer section of town. As it was, it was obvious that some fighting had taken place here. Fires burned here and there, and a dark smoke lingered in the air. I looked for somewhere high for us to get a view of the area, but it took a while. Finally, we came upon a 12-storied brick building that was still standing. We climbed a metal fire escape outside, which led us right to the rooftop. We scuffled across the gravel roof to the western edge. Pilgrim brought out her opera glasses and we took turns looking out at the city of St. Louis.
The first thing that I noticed was that the smoke that surrounded us was heavier in the west. In fact, the farther west I looked, the darker the smoke became. Flashes of light and distant rumbles told me something I didn’t want to know.
“This doesn’t look good,” I mumbled to her.
“What is it?” she asked. She was answered by another rumble that sounded like distant thunder.
“That,” I said, “is artillery fire. Rockets maybe. Sounds like it’s about 25 miles away, far in the west. When we get across, we’ll have to link up with Madrigal quickly. Then you two will have to somehow go around all the fighting to get to the House of the Interpreter.”
“But I thought you said St. Louis was an open city,” she asked.
“I did, and it was,” I said. “Apparently that’s changed. Someone’s willing to fight over the city. We just have to get into it and through before the fighting spills out into the streets.”
She nodded, and I wondered what she was thinking, even though I didn’t have the luxury for changing the plan or even making excuses. We ran down the fire escape and I looked around, trying to decide if it was necessary to steal one of the few cars that I saw on the road. Then, as if in answer to my question, a yellow car fixed up like a cab drove by. I quickly whistled and he stopped.
We jumped in the back and looked at the driver. He was a very dark man with dreadlocks.
“We need to get to St. Louis,” I told him quickly. “What kind of currency do you accept?”
“What do you have, mon?” His accent was thick Jamaican.
“I’ve got caps, Canadian loonies, U.S. greenbacks, and am open to barter.”
&nb
sp; “Caps always work,” he said. “Look, I can take you to the bridge, but you on your own getting across. Bridge closed unless you have papers, mon.”
We settled on 30 caps to take us the three miles to the bridge. We could have walked that far, but I wanted Pilgrim out in the open as little as possible, so this seemed as good a way as any to get there.
He rumbled onto the old Interstate 55 and headed toward the Missouri border. When we got about 100 feet from the bridge, he pulled over.
“This is it for me,” he said. “War is coming this way, and I want to be going the other way.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thanks and good luck.”
“You too.”
We got out of the cab and looked off the edge of the interstate at the bridge, the St. Louis skyline and the famous Gateway Arch. Infinity stared at it for a long time before I realized something was wrong with it. A section of the span was missing, as if someone had taken a shot at it. The edges where the chunk had disappeared were blackened as if it had burned at one time. It looked like a gap-toothed smile, only upside down.
“Well, it wasn’t that way four months ago,” I said. I then pointed down at the water below us. A flotilla of boats, both large and small, were crossing the river, all of them going east to Illinois rather than west to Missouri.
“Let’s go talk to the guys at the gate here and see what we can learn,” I said.
The cab driver had stopped at about the limit for civilian traffic. Ahead were only Humvees and antiquated jeeps. Four men in Missouri National Guard uniforms stood at the gate with a white wooden beam dropped down in the way of traffic. They were talking to the soldiers in the front Humvee, examining their documents.
I walked up to them, until one held up a hand for us to halt.
“Let’s see some papers,” he said, apparently all business.
I shook my head. “We’re just headed west after walking the past 300 miles. We don’t have any papers.”
The soldier smirked. “Then you’re not getting through. Besides, you don’t want to go this way anyway. Fighting west of here.”
“Who’s fighting?” I asked innocently, even though I had an idea who it was.
“A warlord named Ajax decided that St. Louis belonged to him. Broke into an armory in Kentucky. Now the National Guard is the only thing between him and the only free city in North America.”
“Only free city?” I echoed. “What about Minneapolis?”
He grinned without a shred of humor. “Guess you didn’t hear. Nuke took it out a week ago.”
I stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. That had been where I was supposed to report. If I hadn’t taken my time with Pilgrim….
“Look, if you guys need to get across, try downriver. Not here,” the soldier said. He then waved and smiled. “Good luck.”
I was still stunned and Pilgrim led me away, back toward Illinois.
“That’s terrible about Minneapolis,” she said.
“It’s more than terrible,” I responded. “Central Command for the Midwest was located in Minneapolis. That’s where I was headed.”
I felt numb for a long time as we walked down the Interstate until we found an off ramp and were once again back in East St. Louis. I wondered about the boats that were arriving in Illinois, and suggested we walk down to the docks. It was getting dark, but we found our way simply by going against the flow of refugees that was escaping east. By the time it was completely dark, we found a central location that was accepting the boats, with a few men helping people out of the boats and organizing them to go back to Missouri.
When I first saw the boats traveling east, I had two thoughts. First, what came east could just as easily go west. Second, there was one man who had a reputation for organizing such efforts, sometimes for humanitarian reasons, but mostly for monetary reasons.
I saw Madrigal surrounded by other men, barking out orders as he usually did. I smiled when he saw me and he laughed and held out his hand, and then hugged me.
“Edward, you old bastard,” he muttered, slapping me on the shoulder.
“Who’s the bastard?” I said. “At least I’m not in it for the money.”
“Hey, these people needed help,” he said. “What’s wrong with me making a little cash along with helping them?”
I laughed and turned to Pilgrim.
“Pilgrim, this is Madrigal. He’s a profiteer, an ex-Marine and my cousin. He’s the only other person in the world that I would trust with your safety.”
I turned to Madrigal. “My man, this young woman is your package. You are to deliver her to the House of the Interpreter, safe and sound. And if there are any problems or any hair on her head is hurt….”
Madrigal smirked. “Edward, I’m crushed. You know me. I’ll protect her with my life.”
“You’d better.” I turned to Pilgrim. “This man will take care of you, but remember, don’t let anyone know who you are.”
She nodded. “And you’ll meet me at the House of the Interpreter?”
“I promise,” I said, knowing that promises were becoming harder and harder to keep.
“That’s—.” My words were cut off as she wrapped me in her arms and kissed me hard on the mouth. I didn’t push her away, because I somehow sensed that we would be apart for longer than either of us imagined.
And then I did push her away and ran off into the night. Back to ToC
17. INTO THE FIRE
INFINITY: ST. LOUIS: DAY 788
From the moment I saw the big man in baggy cargo pants and gray T-shirt helping others out on the docks, I knew that was Madrigal. And I knew that seeing him signaled that it was time for Evangelist to leave. I was trying to be brave; philosophical, in fact. But the reality was that Evangelist was the only sane, reliable person that I knew in the world. Oh sure, Daddy was always there, but where was he? I knew that he was doing his best to help me, but the cold, hard fact was that all I had was Evangelist, and now he was leaving.
I’d known it for weeks, of course, and the rational side tried very hard to take over. Despite however much trust Evangelist had in Madrigal, I didn’t know him and I didn’t trust him. Isn’t that what he had told me? Trust no one, confide in no one. And so that became my mantra. In the meantime, I’d realized that the only way I would survive was to learn everything I could as quickly as I could.
I hadn’t planned to kiss Evangelist. When he turned to me, I knew that our time together was over. And somehow I sensed that it would be a long time before we saw each other again. And so I had to do it. It was less of an I Love You kiss and more of an I’ll Never Forget You kiss. And once I’d done it, I was glad.
And then he was gone. Evangelist was standing in front of me, and then he wasn’t. And I was standing in the middle of strangers, staring across the black water of the Mississippi into a city under siege. And I was depending on a man I’d never met to take me into that city and out the other side.
I looked at the man called Madrigal. He was a little over 30, tall, built sturdily enough, with a receding hairline, close-cropped sandy-blonde hair and massive biceps. And I disliked him immediately. I stood there for a long time, just watching him as he continued to organize people coming out of the boats, as well as men getting ready to take them back. After a minute, he noticed that I hadn’t moved from the spot where Evangelist had left me, and he came over to me.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he said, taking hold of my arm. “We have a little more work to do before we can leave. So why don’t you sit down over there?”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” I growled. “So why don’t you let go of my arm.” I jerked it away.
He looked at me, a slight smile coming onto his lips, then he chuckled.
“Oh-kay,” he said. “Do what you want, Princess.” He bowed before me and went back to his work. After a long minute, I turned and sat down where he’d invited me to. Twenty minutes later, a man came running up to Madrigal and two other men with a sheet of paper. He tol
d him something that apparently wasn’t good news. Madrigal came up to me.
“It seems our timetable has been moved up. Ajax and his crew have broken through on the north side of town. They’ve apparently got tanks.”
He stared at me, as if waiting for me to react, then turned to his friends.
“Two minutes,” he shouted, then turned to me.
“If you’re coming, you’d better get your butt in the saddle.”
I followed him to an ancient cabin cruiser that was docked alongside a dozen others. We climbed on board and he turned the key. A minute later, we were turned around and out in the main channel.
The water was black, and at first, there was only the sound of a dozen boats headed back toward the Missouri shore. I could see him motioning to the others around us, trying to keep the boats in an organized pattern. I saw him turning the wheel one way and then another, as if he were steering around something. I looked over the side, and realized that he was steering left and right to avoid hitting bodies floating in the water.
“Look,” he said, finally, pointing ahead of us. Heads poked above the surface.
“It’s people,” I said, amazed.
“Idiots, is what they are. People so desperate to get across that they decide to try and swim it.”
“Do any of them make it?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “If they do, they are in the minority. All I know is that the swimmers and their bodies are making it harder for us to get boats across. Hitting a body in the water is hard on a prop and an engine.”
“Don’t you want to stop and pull them in?”
“Sweetheart, there are paying customers on the other side waiting for us. Thousands of them. If these idiots want a ride, they can swim back and get in line.”
I saw a man struggling to help a woman and a little girl, all trying to swim in the powerful current. They were a dozen feet away, and they looked like they wouldn’t last another five minutes. In the darkness I heard the man struggle to get out two words: “Help. Please.”
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