by Rysa Walker
My eyes instinctively avoid the foreground of the image, where bodies slump to the side or lean against each other in most of the pews. A child’s arm dangles over one side. The bodies seem intact, but the skin looks strange. And they’re emaciated, some appearing almost mummified.
“Notice anything odd?” Kiernan asks, crouching down beside me to look over my shoulder. “Other than the fact that they’ve all died inside the church. And that they all look like the life has been sucked out of them.”
“Well, they’re mostly women and girls. Two-thirds, at least. Sort of like at Estero.”
“That’s true,” he says. “Based on what I’ve seen, however, that’s true of most cults. I’ll pass on speculating as to why they might attract more women than men, since my best guess will likely earn me a kick in the shin.”
He gets the kick anyway, just for thinking it. “Funny, coming from the guy who was once a loyal Cyrist—”
“Because his mother dragged him along, in case you’ve forgotten. See anything else unusual? Or at least unusual for Georgia forty-some years after the Civil War?”
I look a bit more closely at the pictures. It’s hard to tell, because the photographs are grainy and low resolution. The bodies aren’t exactly in tip-top shape, either, but it looks like some of them are white, while others are African American.
“It’s a mixed-race congregation. That’s not common down here, is it?”
“No,” he says. “I thought it was unusual, too, and one good thing about being an eccentric Yankee visitor is that you can ask questions anyone else would know and locals aren’t surprised. You might not get a full or truthful answer, but I think I got enough to piece things together. The lady at the store where I buy the local paper, Mrs. Morton, said a lot of the churches did have mixed membership before the Civil War, because the plantations were spread out. Slaves were taught to worship as their masters did, and it was easier if everyone just attended services together. After the war, most religions split off into a colored group and a white group.
“I thought they might be Quaker at first, but the pews are arranged different in a Quaker church, and Mrs. Morton said the Quakers left Georgia long before the war. She figures they were Pentecostal of some sort.”
“Okay, this is interesting and all, not to mention really creepy. But why do you think it has anything to do—”
“They died from some sort of bacterial agent, Kate. The best official guess is that it was something in the well and they knew they were dying and gathered in the church to go out together.”
“Do they know what type of bacteria?”
“No clue, although I doubt there’d be a very rigorous investigation in rural Georgia in 1911, especially for a group with few ties to the outside world. They assume that it hit fast—there’s one grave dug in back of the church but no one in it. So one of the articles is thinking they gathered for the funeral of the first victim and then it hit the rest of them. But there’s no coffin, no body laid out at the front, ready for burial, unless it’s the old lady slumped off in the corner. The story got a bit of coverage, because it’s creepy, but it dropped off the radar pretty fast.”
“What bacterial agent would act that quickly?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing it doesn’t occur naturally. And . . . I’ve seen bodies like that before. Around 2070, on my little tour through time with Simon.”
I pull a few more articles out of the box. “And you just happened to stumble on this, what—six years into the future? That’s . . .”
He glances down at the floor. “No. I was looking. I really didn’t have much to go on, just something Simon said one night in New Orleans, back before I met you. He was angry at Saul for chewing him out about something. About ten drinks in, Simon starts ranting about Saul not having room to talk after his screwup at Six Bridges. He got really nervous when I asked him about it later. Of course, he denied ever having said anything about Six Bridges. When he could see I didn’t buy it, he told me it happened when Saul was younger and suggested that I shut the hell up if I didn’t want my ass kicked. As if he could.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”
He rocks his chair onto its back legs. “Because it was a dead end. Kate asked Katherine about it, before, and Katherine said that if it was something that Saul did, it would probably have been in the 1850s, probably in Massachusetts, Illinois, or Ohio. They searched all of those areas and came up with nothing. Katherine even looked in Georgia around the time the FWP was there, because she said Saul was at that site at least once, but she came up blank. And when they expanded the search, they still didn’t find anything called Six Bridges, aside from a beer, a movie from the 1950s, and a bike trail somewhere. The problem is only the locals call it Six Bridges, because that’s how many bridges you cross to get there. It’s not an actual town or anything. And it doesn’t even exist in 1938, when Katherine was looking through the Georgia maps. I’d almost forgotten it until Charlie, the chatterbox who helped me put in the water heater, said something about going duck hunting with his brother out on Six Bridges Road.”
“So what do you think we should do? We don’t know that this was caused by Saul, and if it was, we don’t know what he used. I don’t think we can just drop in and wait for him to show up. What if it’s airborne?”
“True,” he says. “But we don’t have to watch in person if we go in and set up stable points in advance, like I did when I was looking for Pru and Simon at Norumbega. Six Bridges is maybe an hour from here. We go down there a week or so ahead, set up our ‘cameras,’ so to speak, and leave. Then I’ll watch those points from here in the cabin. If Saul shows up and puts something in the well, then we go in. If this is what he’s planning to use for the Culling, we need a sample.”
My eyes widen. “There’s no way I’m taking something that’s potentially that lethal back with me.”
“It’s not like we really have a choice, Kate. If Saul has an antidote for his Chosen, someone else needs to start working on an antidote as well.”
He has a point, but I still don’t like it. “You do realize we can’t stop this from happening, right? If we change anything at all, it could tip Saul off, and that could have repercussions on the only timeline where we know for certain we’re here to stop him. And, yes, I’m well aware that I sound like Katherine, but we both know it’s true.”
“I know,” he says, glancing back down at the photos. “I’d do this on my own, but I’ll attract more attention by myself. Like you said, it’s mostly women. If we go in together, we’re just a couple out for a weekend ride. We can pretend there’s a problem with one of the bikes, maybe. Even if we only have time to set up one or two stable points, I can jump back in later, in the middle of the night or something, and add more in the specific spots we need to watch.”
I guess he’s right. We need to check this out. The only question is whether I should jump back and discuss this with Katherine and Connor. But we’re only setting up stable points, so I’m not sure what purpose would be served by an hour-long meeting to hash through these new developments.
I toss Kiernan the leather helmet. “See if you can get that clean while I go wash the rest out of my hair. I take it there’s a dress for 1911 in the closet?”
“Yes. But maybe you should learn how to ride the motorcycle first?”
“Kiernan, those things are not motorcycles. They’re barely even mopeds. I drove a scooter around campus for over a year before we moved from Iowa. I have a license to prove it, so maybe I should be the one teaching you.”
GREENE COUNTY, GEORGIA
September 7, 1911, 10:00 a.m.
The farm looks a bit livelier when we step out the back door into 1911. The field behind the house was planted with corn, but I assume it’s been harvested already, because it’s just dry brown stalks, some of which have already been cut down. The shed has had a recent coat of paint, and maybe a few boards were added—it looks more substantial than the lean-to construct
ion I saw during our target practice. Behind the shed, a row of about a dozen peach trees stretches off in the direction of the farmhouse. I catch a faint whiff of fermenting fruit from the carcasses of overripe peaches scattered in the grass.
As it turns out, I may have overstated the similarities between this bike and the scooter I rode in Iowa. It’s about the same height, but it’s twice the weight. Still, it only takes ten minutes or so before I’m able to keep up with Kiernan, and he isn’t handicapped by an outfit that has to be constantly watched to make sure the fabric doesn’t get caught in the spokes or catch fire on the motor, which gets really hot after a few miles.
Rural Georgia roads aren’t exactly biker friendly. We draw hoots and hollers from drivers who clearly don’t get the concept of sharing the road. I suspect most of the catcalls are due to the fact that I’m a female riding in a split skirt. It looks like a normal long skirt when I’m standing, but now that I’m astride the bike, it’s obvious that I—gasp—have legs that actually connect somewhere in the middle. I saw women riding bikes on the streets in Boston and even back at the World’s Fair, so apparently Georgia is a decade or so behind the rest of the country on this issue. It’s not like you can ride a bike sidesaddle.
Each time a horn honks, Kiernan looks back like he’s going to turn the bike around and go teach someone a lesson.
“Would you just ignore them?” I decide not to point out that it’s really all he can do, when they’re zipping by at forty-five miles an hour and we’re tooling along at twenty-five or even less if we’re going uphill.
Idiot drivers aside, the ride was actually kind of pleasant back on the main road—I haven’t been out in open air for more than a few minutes at a time for ages, so it’s a nice change of pace. Now that we’ve turned onto Six Bridges Road, I’m wishing this thing had a gel-padded seat like Mom’s bike. It’s becoming painfully clear that the name Six Bridges Road is truth-in-advertising only in the sense that there are Bridges, presumably Six by the time we get there. The Road part is deceptive—it’s more of a bumpy, rutted trail through the woods, dotted with the occasional puddle that could double as a kiddie pool.
We’ve almost reached the final bridge when Kiernan veers off the trail and pushes his bike a few yards into the woods. I follow and watch as he pulls a wrench out of the basket on the back of his bike. He removes both bolts from one of the two brackets that hold the motor in place, then he tosses the wrench and the bolt, along with the corresponding nut, behind a tree and drops the second nut and bolt into his pocket.
“Okay, the wrench I get. But why throw away the other bolt?” I ask.
“They’ll definitely have a wrench. But they’ll probably have to hunt for a nut and bolt to fit.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No,” I say as we roll the bikes back onto the road. “It’s called a compliment. You’re supposed to nod and say thank you.”
“Really? I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
“That’s a bit of an assumption, isn’t it? I have to ration these things. If I hand compliments out too freely, they lose their value. And your ego—”
“Which you’ve bruised beyond belief by outshooting me and then refusing motorcycle lessons.”
I fake an annoyed look at his interruption. “As I was saying, your ego doesn’t need to be inflated.”
But as I say the words, I realize that I don’t think they’re true. Every now and then I catch him watching me at an unguarded moment, and his eyes are so vulnerable I almost feel like I’m looking at his eight-year-old self. He clearly enjoys the banter back and forth, however, and we seem to drop into that routine naturally. So naturally, in fact, that I can’t help but wonder if this is how he was with Other-Kate. Is he thinking the same thing I thought about Trey—that we so easily slipped back into our old (at least for me) and comfortable patterns? Or now that we’ve been around each other for a while and he knows me better, does he see someone who only looks like the girl he loved?
He laughs. “Ah, but I can always count on you to poke a pin in me if I puff up like a balloon.”
And I guess that answers my question.
Like the previous two bridges, bridge number six is just slats of wood with big gaps, through which you can see the murky water below. We roll the bikes onto the slats, and Kiernan says, “If my previous experience with the South holds true, they may offer us food and drink. Since we’re only guessing that Saul hasn’t been here yet, I’d suggest we avoid anything that might have come in contact with water from their well—so pretty much everything. If they offer, let’s turn the hospitality thing around on them. There’s a bag of candy at the bottom of the basket. I doubt these kids get sweets very often, and Jess gave me enough to last a year.”
“I hope it’s not that nasty hoarhound stuff,” I say, and his grin reminds me that it’s exactly what Other-Kate would have said.
About fifty feet beyond the bridge, the trail curves and the trees thin out to reveal a small cluster of buildings, circled by rings of farmland in varying shades of green and yellow, bordered on all sides by dense woods like the ones behind us. Two boys and an older girl are tossing a ball around in one of the fields ahead, about halfway to the village. It looks like they’re playing keep-away with a dog, a short-haired mixed breed of some sort.
“Kids,” Kiernan says, his voice flat.
“Yeah.”
“They’re ghosts, Kate. We have to think of them as ghosts. Nothing we can do to change it, so . . .”
“Okay. Ghosts.”
The dog either hears us or catches our scent, because it suddenly whirls around and barrels down the trail toward us, barking loudly.
The girl runs after him. “Bull! You get back here!”
Bull is, fortunately, much smaller than the Cyrist Dobermans. He’s at least part Boston terrier, with buggy eyes, a coat that’s brindle and white, and a whole lot of attitude. He stops about three yards in front of us, and Kiernan moves his bike ahead of mine, turning the wheel inward as a barrier.
The girl, who upon closer inspection is only a few years younger than I am, comes running up behind him, the two boys on her heels. They’re twins, around seven or eight years old, with reddish-blond hair hanging over their eyes, plentiful freckles, and overalls. Both sets of eyes are glued to our bikes.
They’re very lively ghosts.
“Bull, I said no!” The barking continues until she yells, “Bad dawg!” At that point it’s like someone flipped a switch. Bull’s bark morphs into a yelp, and he wriggles toward her, leaving a thin, wet trail on the dirt beneath him. I doubt the girl has beaten him, but I suspect someone has, and I’m pretty sure that someone yelled “Bad dawg!” at the same time.
The girl tugs downward on her dress, which is too tight and several inches shorter than the current fashion, and tucks a strand of long white-blond hair behind her ear as her pale blue eyes sweep over us, a bit warily. She takes in my split skirt and the bikes, then lingers for a few extra seconds on Kiernan. Her face turns pink, and her eyes flit back over to me.
“Don’t worry. Bull don’t bite,” the girl says.
As if to prove her wrong, Bull gives us one last halfhearted growl and sinks his teeth into the ball she’s holding.
The two boys nod, and one adds, “But he will latch onto yer leg if he gets a chance an’ sniff in places you prob’ly don’ wanna be sniffed.”
“He’ll pee on yer shoes, too,” says the other boy.
“Jackson, you hush your nasty mouth. You, too, Vern. There’s ladies present.”
Vern, or at least I think he’s the one she called Vern, gives her a sassy grin. “I don’ see but one lady, Martha. You ain’t nothin’ but a girl.”
Martha yanks the ball out of Bull’s teeth and flings it at the boy, but he ducks.
“An’ you even throw like a girl.”
The other boy claps him on the shoulder and says, “Good one, Jack!” Then they both run
off toward the village. Bull looks longingly in their direction, but in the end, he decides to stick with Martha.
“Y’all ain’t from around here,” she says. It’s not a question, just a flat statement of fact. “You at the univers’ty up in Athens?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Matthew Dunne, and this is my fiancée, Kate Keller. She’s a student over at the Lucy Cobb Institute.” We had agreed earlier that his foreign-sounding name and my hyphenated surname would only add to our strangeness, but the fiancée bit is improv. He’s probably right, since being engaged would make it a bit more acceptable for us to be out alone, without a chaperone, but it still sounds weird.
“Martha Farris.” She dips into a faint imitation of a curtsy. “Them boys ’re my cousins, Jackson and Vernon. You’ll have to excuse ’em, miss, ’cause they ain’t got a bit of manners. We try, but it just don’t seem to stick.”
I respond with a nervous laugh. “That’s okay. I’ve seen worse, believe me.”
When she looks back over at Kiernan, he releases the bracket holding the motor and shows her the bolt in his hand. “We were out for a ride, looking for a good picnic spot, but I’m afraid we’ve had a mishap with one of the bikes. Don’t suppose you know anyone who’d have a wrench and maybe an extra bolt?”
“Hold on a minute,” Martha says, veering a few feet off the trail to collect the ball. Her face crinkles in disgust when she realizes it’s now coated with dirt, held in place by dog spit. She bends down to wipe it off on the grass before sticking it into her pocket.
“Come on. Earl’s got a wrench. Don’t know about a bolt, but he shoes the horses and fixes the wagon, so if he don’t have it, we ain’t got one.” She walks along the side of the trail next to me, with Bull at her heels, pushing through the tall grass along the edges. “Ain’t ever seen a skirt sewed up the middle like that, even up in Greensboro. Are ladies really wearin’ those in Athens?”
