Strikers

by Ann Christy

  Two women are packing something that looks like gray or white jerky into sacks while the men watch. Two of the horses, the burned one and another, have sacks tied to them. There are so many tied into stacks on either side of the horses, I can’t believe they can carry the weight. But then one of the women tosses a filled sack toward the scruffy young man with one hand and he catches it without registering any weight at all.

  “Dried fish?” I ask in a whisper.

  Jovan nods and puts a finger to his lips to forestall any more speech.

  When she gives the man the last bag, he counts out coins. I can’t see them, but I can hear the clink of them dropping into her palm from here. It sounds like a lot of money, more than I’ve ever had. If it’s true that fish are the cheapest thing to eat out here, he just got robbed. It makes me smile.

  The older man, the one Jovan called Creedy with such fear in his voice, doesn’t look like much from here. He’s older, his hair a short buzz. He’s tall and even with a visible paunch, he looks fit enough as he returns to his horse. Creedy has that loose-limbed walk of someone entirely confident of his place in the world and I don’t like it one bit. It makes me want to punch him in his paunch.

  They mount up and Creedy puts on his cowboy hat which he then doffs toward the women. He must cut a fine figure because I see them put their hands to their mouths and turn to the side like girls flirting. Some things are apparently the same everywhere.

  The sound of their hooves is loud as they ride back down the riverbank, going south and away from us. We stay silent for a moment, listening to their retreat until they’re gone and the women hurry back around the huts, out of view.

  “They went south. That’s good,” I say.

  Jovan gives me a quizzical look so I add, “That means there probably isn’t another settlement we might run into north of here. So, it’s safe.”

  His expression clears and he nods, “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  He eyes me speculatively for a minute, an amused curl at the edge of his lips, until I get uncomfortable and ask, “What? Why are you staring at me?”

  The little smile turns into a grin and I swear the birds stop singing to watch him. Being this close to him when he smiles is more than uncomfortable. It’s delightful and at the same time makes me feel like I just ate something that didn’t agree with me. I can feel the flush creeping across my face, but what surprises me is that I can see pink in his cheeks, too. He reaches out and plucks a leaf from my hair, catching a few of the dark strands in the process, and blows it from his fingers.

  Instead of doing what I’d like to do, which is kiss those smiling lips, I smack his hand and repeat, “What?”

  The smile falters a little and he seems to search my face for something. He must not find whatever he’s looking for because the smile drops entirely and he says, “Nothing. You’re smart, is all I was thinking. You think of things sort of backwards, which is what we need.” He finishes with a little shrug and returns his gaze to the fishing settlement. Whatever that moment was, it’s clearly over.

  There are fewer boats on the water. Our vantage point allows us to watch a group of people gathering at a long line of tables by the water where they’re processing the fish. Every few minutes, a couple of children pass with a long pole, fish split and hanging over the pole like laundry on a clothesline, then disappear into one of the conical huts. That must be where they smoke the fish. I’d like to get into one of those.

  It strikes me finally that what Jovan said was a bit of an insult if I decide to take it the wrong way. Backwards? That’s how a thief thinks when trying to be sure they aren’t caught. “Are you saying I’m sneaky?” I demand.

  My expression must be telling because he flounders for words. “Uh, no. Not at all,” he says and then pauses. “Not sneaky, strategic. Those are very different things.”

  I purse my lips at him, making it obvious that the only difference I see between those two labels are the actual words, but I don’t call him on it. Sometimes words aren’t needed to call bull on someone. This is one of those times.

  “We’ve got another hour or so before sunset. I’ll keep watch, you make sure everyone is ready and erase any signs of us being there,” I say and turn my face away to watch the people below.

  He hesitates, probably trying to decide if he should speak. In the end, he just sighs and scoots backward. Before he’s out of reach, he squeezes my ankle and I look back just in time to catch his wink before he turns to crawl away. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry, and watch the people. Still, I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The people of the settlement close up for the evening with the remarkable speed of those who live by habit. Before dusk has fallen deeply enough to give me trouble seeing my way back, they are in their huts. The merry light of lanterns creates squares of gold on the ground outside their windows and lines the rims of their doors.

  Back at camp, there is no sign that we were ever there. Old brush and leaves cover the hollows made by our bodies and everything is neatly packed. The moon is already up, fat and almost full, so the silver light replaces the warm yellow of the sun almost seamlessly, though it does wash the color out of everything.

  Jovan hands me my pack and we set out. The village hugs the shore of the lake in a fairly tight cluster. The buildings peek out between the trees as we make our way past. We’re far closer than I’d like. Even walking with care, the noise of our footsteps on the old leaves is loud to my ears. If anyone came outside and was quiet enough, they would hear it too.

  The faint sound of singing reaches us from one of the huts. It’s a nice voice, young and sweet, but I can’t make out the words. It fades behind us as the sound of night insects swells. The smell of the fish offal grows very strong—strong enough that Cassi and I put our sleeves to our noses—and Connor points out a line of baskets along the shore. The drone of flies is loud enough to tell us what’s in them. I can’t help but wonder what they do with all of it. I hope they don’t feed it back to the fish. Even the idea of that is enough to make me reconsider my desire to try fish.

  There’s a solitary hut on stilts at the edge of the village that we have to get past, but just when I think we’re home free, Jovan darts off into the darkness toward it. His long legs take him out of range of any whispered calls, and the rest of us freeze. My first thought is that he’s changed his mind and he’s going to turn himself in. He’d be welcomed. The reward those people would get would ensure it. The four of us stare at each other in shock.

  Connor breaks our silence by hissing, “Run.”

  We do, crashing through the underbrush along the lake, heading north as fast as we can. I didn’t think Jovan would turn us in after everything that’s happened, but I didn’t think he would take off toward the village either. I honestly thought he was with us, so I have no idea what I’m supposed to think of this. More than once I’ve felt the closeness we shared as children coming back, but in a new and different way. A more grown-up way.

  I was clearly wrong and if I wasn’t running for all I was worth while trying not to get my eye put out by greenery, I’d be a lot more angry about it. At the moment, I’m just terrified.

  Connor stops short, his feet skidding on the ground so that he falls backward on his rear with a whump. Cassi and Maddix each grab an arm to help him up but he shakes them off and points. I’m expecting a pack of angry villagers, but what I see is Jovan. He’s carrying a good-sized sack on his back. He’s running in a crazy full-on sprint like the hounds of hell are after him. All I can do is put my hand over my mouth to muffle a laugh.

  He went after fish. And I know he didn’t do it for himself.

  Connor waves him over with a little flash of the light. That’s a dangerous move but he won’t find us otherwise because of our panicked run, and he shifts his aim for us.

  I almost can’t believe he makes it when he gets to us, out of breath, his face shiny with sweat, but smiling like th
ere’s no tomorrow.

  “That was stupid!” Cassi whispers and shoves his arm. “We thought you were turning yourself in. Maybe us, too.”

  He looks hurt by that, the smile gone. “You think I would do that?” he asks, hefting the sack more securely on his back. He shifts his gaze toward me and asks, “You think I would?”

  “What were we supposed to think? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was stupid. We need to get out of here. Someone might have heard,” Maddix says and walks on like he’s not even remotely interested in any further conversation on the subject.

  I agree with him and shoot a dark look Jovan’s way before I follow. I’m glad it’s dark and the moon makes all our faces look like gray and black imitations of themselves. I don’t want to see the hurt on Jovan’s face anymore and I don’t want him to see the shame on mine. But really, what were we supposed to think? He may think it’s cute and nice, but not giving us a warning was thoughtless. Still. He’s given up a perfect life to go with us and he doesn’t deserve for us to assume the worst of him whenever he does something that isn’t planned.

  I have a feeling this night’s walk is going to be a long one and there won’t be any friendly chatting to pass the time.

  *****

  I discover during our next stop that fish is indescribably nasty. What Jovan picked up was a bag full of the dried stuff, basically fish jerky. We halt for the night when we’re a few miles out and safely away from the fishing village. I drop a few pieces of the stiff jerky into a pot of water, thinking it will work like beef jerky and turn the water into a nice broth. The result is not tasty and if we all weren’t so thirsty, I’m pretty sure we would toss it.

  But we are thirsty and we drink it, making faces over the shared cup. It’s actually pretty hilarious when it’s not my turn to drink. Then it’s suddenly not at all hilarious. I pinch my nose when it’s my turn to drink and soon, everyone is. The whole thing is ridiculous.

  The squirrels, on the other hand, are mouthwatering and we each get a whole one, which makes up for the fish nicely. I pass the cup to Cassi and she dips out another serving of broth, her face steeled against what she knows is coming and I almost laugh.

  “So, this is fish,” I say, tossing the words out to the group to see what they toss back.

  Jovan nods, his face absolutely expressionless and giving nothing away. Connor isn’t so shy and says, “And it’s gross.”

  Maddix laughs and says, “This is not what fish tastes like. Trust me on that. This is what dried fish that probably isn’t good when it’s fresh tastes like.”

  Cassi makes a gagging sound and passes the cup to Maddix, who dips some out then adds, “Just do me a favor. If we get someplace where you can really taste fish—and if I say it will be worth trying—reserve judgment until you taste it then.”

  I’m leery of making a promise like this. We need water in our bodies for tomorrow, and we passed no decent streams to replenish our containers so we’re making do, but I have no intention of ever subjecting myself to this particular flavor again.

  Suddenly, Jovan lets out a laugh and slaps his knee. He gives me an evil little grin and says, “Just wait till Creedy finds out what he paid for.”

  We all crack up at that, but we keep it a little quieter so the sound doesn’t carry. The mood is good and everyone seems to be forgiven. Jovan is forgiven for taking off like he did and scaring us and we for immediately assuming the worst of him.

  “Here’s to the fish, then,” Maddix says and raises his cup.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The last of our luck is well and truly behind us. At the moment, I’m questioning whether or not we’ll ever catch up to it again. I truly cannot understand why there are so many people living out in this region, but there are. More settlements seem to be popping up almost as soon as we put one behind us.

  And they aren’t just settlements where people do whatever it is they do and stick close to home. That would be too convenient. No, these are all industrious, purposeful places where there’s apparently much to be done and people are all over the place. Inquisitive eyes would certainly seek out the source of any uncharacteristic sound, like the sound of five fugitives blundering past in the woods.

  The number of streams and rivers increases with each passing mile, and trade seems to be flowing down each of them, making our situation even worse. Crossing takes far longer than any of us have patience for and we’re snapping at each other before each day is halfway done.

  We find a little hollow where the bushes are thick enough to hide us, so we stop to rest. There’s been no opportunity for a fire for the last two nights, so we’ve been rationing our two gallons of water far more stringently than is comfortable.

  My throat feels like it’s been scoured and I resent every drop of sweat that comes out of me. Each of us has complained of a headache from our increasing dehydration at least once. These ill effects just sour the general mood even further.

  Squatting in the little hollow that night is miserable. I’m not the only one having a hard time dealing with the changing environment. It’s grown humid, the air so moist it leaves a film of dew on exposed skin while we sleep. When we wake, our clothes are damp and heavy. It’s uncomfortable for people like us who’ve lived our entire lives in air so dry that it can crack the skin. It’s not truly hot, but it’s much warmer during the day than it has been. Darkness brings a chill made worse by the damp.

  “This is nothing,” Maddix says. “The border we need is over the Mighty Miss and those bridges were purposefully destroyed a long time ago. And you better believe this Creedy guy would have put the word out along this side of the river.”

  I can’t imagine a river much worse than the ones we’ve been crossing lately. Every crossing is a gamble. At some rivers, the water is so fast and turbulent it’s frightening just to look at. At others, it’s deceptively calm and it’s only when you sink in thick mud that the danger becomes clear.

  “How much bigger can the Mighty Miss be?” I ask.

  I’m not sure how to take the look he gives me, but I know it doesn’t mean anything good. “It makes all the rest look like the canal back home,” he answers in a flat voice.

  “Then how did you get across it?” Cassi asks.

  “A decent handful of beef jerky will get you passage on one of the boats if you’re willing to pitch in and work. I’m telling you, beef is a luxury out here. But, no one was looking for me, not like they are for us now.”

  “Then how do you suggest we get across?” Jovan asks.

  Maddix shakes his head, unsure. He says, “I suggest we get to a place upstream and see what we can see. Maybe we can steal one of the little tender boats. We don’t need to get it straight across, just across in general. We can always walk back to the nearest border gate once we’re on the other side of the river.”

  I’m about to ask what a tender boat is but Jovan beats me to it. Maddix says, “They’re just small boats used to tend the barges or take small deliveries from the big grain barges.”

  I’m completely out of my element. I have nothing more to offer on the subject and the truth is, I’m so tired that I’m not sure I’d give any reasonable input anyway. It all sounds good to me because it means an end to being chased.

  In the morning, I just try to focus on the fact that our journey is coming to an end instead of how disgusting I feel. My clothes have been damp for so long that I’m pretty sure I’m going to start growing mold. Our breakfast of a few sips of water is a joke, but it’s what we have. All of us still refuse to eat any of the fish jerky. We’re not that hungry yet.

  I smell the river before I hear it, and I hear it long before I see it. It reminds me of the way the Red River advertised its location but far more intense. I doubt something as small as the Red would even attract any notice now that I’ve seen so much more. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve become adapted to so much water, even after a lifetime without any to spare.

  The smell is wild and a little fetid. The sou
nd is a low rush, a second bloodstream I can feel through the soles of my feet, deep and thrumming and very powerful. The river is clearly bigger than my imagination allowed for, and I find myself thinking back to the way Maddix looked at me when I questioned how big it could be. I’m starting to understand that look for what it was. It was a “you’ll see” look without the slightest hint of doubt in it.

  The city lying between us and the river is abandoned, so we decide to go through rather than around it. The river has either flooded many times in the past or changed course more than once.

  There are flows of old mud, dried as hard as concrete, piled in what used to be streets and up against the sides of ragged buildings. In some places, the flows stand as tall as my hips against glass that remains mysteriously unbroken, while doors are forever braced open by knee-deep flows that came in sometime in the past.

  Inside those open doors, where the rain can’t reach, the dried mud has maintained all the marks of its flow, waves and rivulets clearly showing on the surface. It’s beautiful in a terrible and destructive way.

  I’ve seen cars many times during our journey, but nothing like what I see here. They absolutely litter the streets, either pushed up against buildings or in jumbled piles. They’re big and roomy-looking, some even larger than the prairie jumper, and I can’t help but look inside a few with open doors. Rodents have made nests in the seats and I hear the cry of a bird of prey from somewhere high in the buildings. This may have once been a place inhabited by people, but it has been re-made since to suit a whole different web of life.

  Near the edge of the city the buildings grow squat and wide, with fewer windows and more old fences. Eventually, we reach a vast wall that is more collapsed than upright. Whole sections of it lie in piles while short expanses remain defiantly upright.

  As we reach one of those standing sections and squat in its shade for a rest, I tap the concrete and ask, “Is this the border?”