Fifteen minutes later, Plimpton stepped out of the Delmarva Capital Trust Building and waved off Hanson, his driver, footman and personal servant. Niles needed to think without being jostled in the coach on rough frost heaved roads. The milder weather practically begged for exercise. He would walk for a bit, be amongst the people. Hanson knew better than to allow the master to walk unaccompanied and so let the whip touch the filly’s flanks to get the carriage moving. As Plimpton turned the corner of Legislative Avenue to stroll along William Penn Street, he observed a black man shoveling horse manure onto a wagon. Plimpton nodded at the man appreciatively and the man bowed slightly, tipping his hat without making eye contact. It was a relatively dry, forty-five degree June dusk with a hint of sun settling down somewhere beyond the red brick buildings that made up the bulk of the small colonial style city. The City Beautification Committee had recently planted mature cherry trees that had been grown in vast hot houses, and the buds were on the verge of bursting. Birds sang and Plimpton felt just a little extra spring in his step as his fellow Shoremen recognized him and respectfully made way for him. There was some motor traffic, but not much, and only that which was authorized. The bulk of transport was via beast: be it horse, ox or ass, commerce on the island was, for the time being, reduced to the start of the previous century. This didn’t bother Plimpton in the slightest: As long as the people were working, productive, and out from under the threat of constant mortal danger, the island was a relative paradise. Before Omega, it had been the breadbasket for much of the Eastern U.S. In Plimpton’s mind, the absence of technology (outside of military) and the resultant agrarian economy was a natural fit for the people of this new, primarily agricultural country.
During the first panic filled days of the Exodus, the unimaginative ones who had objected to this new construct, who had not wanted to secede, who couldn’t grasp that the world had changed forever, had mostly come from the Other, the mainland. They had been dealt with one way or another. Nothing was wasted – most could be made productive. The true malcontents were of course banished. The new nation simply couldn’t tolerate dissent and survive.
Charlie Booker lifted a shovel full of horseshit while watching the Councilor stroll the sidewalk erect with pride. He straightened his own posture a bit, only to have his raised head make him suddenly feel watched by them at the edge of his peripheral vision: two heavily armored Sentinels standing at attention outside the Council Tower. Them robots were right outta one of them video games that had swept away his time with his teenage son … before the gates of hell opened and took Charlie’s son away. The Sentinels, with their eight legs drawn together as one, left the impression that the machines might be cumbersome and slow, but Charlie Booker knew better. When them legs broke out into they’s spider-like configuration, they could suddenly run down anything on two legs or four. The Sentinels, was a blessing and a curse. They’d taken care of the devils runnin’ cross the countryside, but they’d also been the muscle behind all of them new laws. Charlie Booker shoveled up another fresh pile, made a face at the horse and oxen filth caked on the spade. Over the years, lots’a folks had talked about going back to simpler times. Had talked about it for as long as Charlie could remember. In the shanty towns down ‘ol Virginia way, seemed like that’s all that folks talked about. As if simpler times were somehow easier times. Charlie Booker’s back ached. Charlie Booker missed his son. Missed his son playing video games.
Tillie Jarvis also watched Councilman Plimpton take his stroll. The seventeen-year-old white girl, far poorer looking than Charlie Booker, stood on the street opposite Delmarva Capital Trust trying to sell her last bag of roasted peanuts so she could go home to help out her mother with her sick little sister, Emily. It was the beginning of the social season. She wondered what the handsome powerful man might be like at a grand ball. Did he dance? As a girl she had read books about bygone days when ladies and lords dressed in finery arrived by carriage at great lit up houses. It was amazing to see it now, the new nation enveloping itself in long dead traditions. She imagined herself with her long dark locks done up on her head, a flowing dress and her pale skin… One of the matt-black Sentinels that stood across the street shifted positions slightly and she found herself caught in its soulless gaze. But it wasn’t soulless. She knew that. Behind the robot’s eyes were the eyes of its driver, probably sitting in some climate-controlled trailer in an undisclosed place. Through a wireless signal, a soldier was looking at her through a machine’s eyes. Tillie’s shifted her focus away from the oddly human looking head and scanned down the torso (sculpted to look like an armored Roman soldier) and rested her gaze on the gun that it carried. She’d never forget the sight and sound of those guns. When she and her family had made the final dash across the bridge, they had nearly been shot to bits by those weapons. Across the street, the machine lifted its remarkably human looking hand and gave her a slight wave. She looked away and glanced down at her own hand, realizing that she had unconsciously crushed the bag of peanuts to a near un-sellable shape. It was getting late. Though a crushed bag of peanuts was as good as a whole one to most hungry folks, she knew she wouldn’t have another sale today. She shook off the memory of the most harrowing day of her short life and turned to walk the two miles to the old brick apartment building where her family shared a two bedroom with two other families.
Plimpton smiled as he watched the girl peanut vendor turn to walk up the street. He was proud of that sight. His army, his robotic army, had made it so that girl could live and safely partake in the new country’s commerce. He noticed that she clutched one last bag of peanuts and he called out. “You there. Peanut Girl. Can I buy your last bag?”
Tillie turned at the voice and was astonished to see the councilman quickening his step to catch up with her. She was at a loss for words, but stopped all the same.
“I haven’t had a roasted peanut in at least… a decade.”
Tillie found her voice, but noticed her legs trembling. “I… I’m afraid I may have crushed some. You, you may just have it, sir.”
“Nonsense. How much is a bag of peanuts?”
“Two dollars, sir.”
Plimpton waved to Hanson who had pulled the carriage to the curb. “Hanson, I need two dollars. Buying this beautiful young lady’s last bag of peanuts for the day.”
The street was mostly empty. The growing dusk meant near total darkness as streetlight bulbs were scarce and the energy better used elsewhere. The driver set the brake, hopped down, and fished out some bills from his pocket. “Seems I have but a fiver for small bills, sir.”
“I can make change,” whispered Tillie.
Plimpton took the newly minted Shore bill and exchanged it for the peanuts. “No, you keep the change. How old are you, my dear?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“Lovely. You are a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. Envy I have for the lad you finally choose.”
Tillie blushed and stared at the ground, completely taken with the handsome leader. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Oh no, no, no. Lord I am not. Servant I am. We are a nation of equals, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Plimpton turned to his driver, “Shall we, Hanson?” Hanson simply nodded and opened the carriage door for the master. Plimpton turned back to the girl and removed his hat. “A good evening to you, Miss…?”
“Jarvis. Tillie Jarvis.”
“A good evening to you, Miss Jarvis.” Plimpton turned to his carriage. Tillie stood in awe, and for a moment she forgot all about the new and terrible world. A handsome prince had deemed to speak with her. It was just like every book about such things that she had ever read. Her heart was light as a feather. Then Plimpton turned back. “Why Hanson, being rude we are. We need to offer this young lady a ride home.”
A shadow fell across the footman’s eyes and he grew stiff as he held the door to the closed cab. “Sir, I’m sure Ms. Jarvis must be going a different way.”
Tillie dar
ed not speak. She looked inside the sumptuously appointed cab and felt her feet grow lighter as her heartbeat swelled with sudden anxiety. To ride in the councilman’s carriage? Her family wouldn’t believe it.
“Nonsense,” replied Plimpton. “It’s growing dark. Despite the total safety of our streets, a gentleman wouldn’t leave her to walk alone.”
The next day a ten-year-old boy found her in a drainage ditch about three miles outside the city center. The coroner would determine that she had been raped and then strangled with her own panties. The city’s chief constable would reiterate to the press that the murder rate remained very low: just twenty-three in the decade that The Shore had come to be, and that everything would be done to find the perpetrator. “Such viciousness should not exist in a society that has faced and overcome the scourge that was Cain’s.” What he didn’t mention was that seven of those murders had been similar to this last one. Nearly every year there had been a rape killing like this. In his heart he knew it was the same perpetrator. What he had now was the means to do something about it. Various Sentinel patrols had gone out from The Shore over the past year. They had gained valuable knowledge about the surrounding countryside and had also brought back valuable goods and technology. The constable finally had a lab worthy of the term. At the very moment that he was speaking to the press, the newly created forensics lab was looking at the DNA of a killer who had no compunction against leaving his semen within the victim.
CHAPTER TEN
Up River
We passed a vast field of weathered towers piercing through the waves where once the nation’s largest offshore wind farm existed. The machines had been long ago dismantled and brought north to keep up with the demand of a country that owed its civilized existence to uninterrupted electricity.
As we entered the Chesapeake, Captain Dean kept The Ginger Girl as far from land as he could. The city of Norfolk lay in black ruin to our south while the tip of the Delmarva Peninsula could just be made out to our north. As we angled toward Hampton Roads and the mouth of the James River we had no choice but to get closer to shore. A tattered flag (really just a few ribbons) still flew over the battlements of Fort Monroe. As the waters narrowed, Dean had to tack closer and closer to the shore. Like collapsing gravestones in a forgotten cemetery, the deeply weathered homes and commercial buildings offered a testament to a once thriving existence. Only rugged shore birds gave life to what was otherwise complete desolation. It wasn’t until we reached the remains of the James River Bridge that we saw any evidence of the Exodus. The bridge had been destroyed in a fruitless effort to restrain the surge of infected people that came from the South. Many of the healthy had been cut off, and rust heaps stuffed with the tattered remains of a hastily packed-up lifetime, dangled amongst the mangled ruins of the bridge. So the felled concrete and steel wouldn’t shear off our keel, we tacked up and down the eastern side of the wreckage until we found a point that seemed safe enough to cross. Once crackling electrical lines, still held aloft by a series of tall rusty towers, allowed for our masts to slip by. At historic Jamestown, the remaining river ice began to thicken along the shore and became substantial at the narrows approaching Claremont. Captain Dean decided that we would drop anchor there with the hope that the coming winter’s ice wouldn’t completely cover the river at its center, thus allowing the possibility of reclaiming The Ginger Girl upon our return.
With the loss of one of the whaleboats, we were anticipating having to make at least four trips to get the rest of the way up to Richmond and the Old Dominion Train Museum. With 22 people and all of our gear, the 20-mile slog up the icy river would be a multi-day event. As luck would have it, there were several mansions on the shore to our north, each with its own private dock. A perfectly protected thirty-foot motor yacht was held aloft inside one of the boathouses. With little effort Seamen Naoto Kitta and Marshal Blakely got the engine running - and to our tremendous luck, there was plenty of clean fuel. We towed the whaleboat with the power yacht holding the ship’s company and all of our gear with ease.
It was only when I could relax and write down these words that I really considered the dead vegetation. Perpetual winter had killed off every deciduous tree. Only the conifers remained robust enough to deal with the extreme weather and poor sunlight. We’d gotten used to dead trees at home, but here, where memories were of a gentle countryside filled with leafy greenery, the landscape was simply sorrowful.
The river was fast moving due to the summer melt off and –
“Colonel?” MacAfee looked up from his journal at Eliza. She stood eating some kind of fish biscuit and held one out for him. “Cookie just made these up using the oven in the galley. They’re good. He’s using up the last of the fresh fish.”
“Thanks.” MacAfee bit into the offered biscuit and smiled at the flavor before grimacing. “Food is going to be boring from now on – nutrition bars and whatever we can scrounge.”
“Whatever we find sounds interesting enough.” She took note of his journal. “May I ask what you’re writing?”
“A log of our mission. The president felt that a record should exist. Actually, it’s more than a log. He asked me to make notes on our observations, the state of the countryside and what not. Even more important since we lost the radios.” He nodded at the crew, who without much to do, stood along the rails and stared at the passing shore. The twins were staring too. They had been good to their word and stayed out of people’s heads. Already, most of the crew had taken to not wearing their helmets. They could be felt and occasionally one could taste something they ate or have a sudden flash of what the two were seeing. It was unsettling, but they were getting used to it. MacAfee said, “So odd to look at that shore. Those homes, docks, towns – time almost stands still. So much up north, at home, already different. For your pucks… I can’t imagine what they think.”
Eliza said, “They are thinking that there were so many of us. They know the history. They know how it was. We have shown them videos from before. But now they are seeing it.”
As planned, Dean brought the cruiser along the vast pumping array that had pulled water from the James River for the Contex Power plant outside of Richmond. It was a coal fired plant and the last available satellite image of it showed a long line of coal cars sitting along the plant’s rail spur. The plan was to drop a team led by Hernandez to confirm that the coal cars were mobile and ready for the engine farther up river. It was decided to split the twins so that each party could benefit from their theoretical protection.
MacAfee joined Hernandez and Sergeant Green on the riverbank in full battle gear. With them were Jamesbonds, Wen Blakely, Abner Lee and Maggie Tender who had sim-trained for the coal car operation. At 50 years old, Abner was everything MacAfee could hope for in his stereotyped image of a salty dog sailor, right down to the man’s thick whitening beard and leathery skin. Maggie, on the other hand, was about the last person that he would have taken as a seaman. Surprisingly attractive, she spoke with a gentle voice and carried herself in the slump shouldered manner of a woman who was trying to hide her womanhood rather than display it. Other than her appropriate clothing, the only giveaway that she worked at sea at all was her hands. They were strong hands with thick calluses, sharp tendons, the skin red and chapped. Then there was Hansel, a gangly creature. Each time MacAfee looked at one of the pucks he felt his heart slightly seize with surprise. Hansel was human looking after all and a brief glance would inform the peripheral vision as much, but he was only human in the way that the Greek god Pan looked human. More than once, he had asked himself if the Ancient Greeks had been on to something. The pucks weren’t some chimera of goat and man, but their gait, built for extraordinary speed, was of a hoofed animal. And those faces, like something from a Grimm Fairytale. Demons walked the Earth. That’s what the headlines had read, before they finished the Terminus, when the country was almost lost. He felt so very grateful for the Terminus. If his countrymen saw what he was looking at right now… He’d been
told about how the FNDz bacteria had invaded the human genome, inserting itself via something called horizontal gene transfer into the living DNA of people, rewriting the code and forever altering the evolutionary future of the infected person’s offspring. Seeing those offspring up close only served to crush his understanding of science and reinforce his understanding of the unseen world. MacAfee offered up a brief prayer.
Hansel wasn’t happy about leaving his sister’s side, but he was also excited. It would be the first time being away from her. He decided to try an experiment and close his mind off to her as he stepped ashore. She blasted him with several primal pleas for attention that only served to make him smile as he remembered that it wasn’t that long ago that he would close her off all the time to punish or tease her. She rarely did it to him, and when she did, it made him feel bad. That didn’t stop him from doing it again today. Today was about Hansel being on his own – or at least without his sister.
Dean was also geared up. Besides wanting to get a lay of the land, the notion of waiting around on a cabin cruiser while people were exploring the shore was not something he was willing to accept. Sanders would handle overseeing the base. As Dean stepped down the gangway, Eliza stepped to the rail. “Captain?” He paused. “I know I’m overstepping, but wouldn’t it make sense for you to stay here, with your ship? We don’t know what might be out there. If there’s trouble, wouldn’t your leadership be better served here?”
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