by Martha Carr
He dyed his hair in the motel bathroom and cut it closer to his scalp, using one of the filmy towels and leaving it in the bathtub streaked with black. It made him look years younger, especially when he put on the dark blue hoodie.
He slept for a few hours sitting up in the chair and waited until the light was first shining in the sky before he got up to go. He made himself eat three of the Twinkies and put the rest in his backpack. Apparently, the lore about Twinkies was true. They would outlast us all.
He spent days on the road, traveling to different small towns, trading odd jobs for food or a place to sleep, even if it was in someone’s shed in their backyard. That didn’t make him stand out, not in those first few months after the world changed.
People were more open to trading services for food or shelter and wanderers, as they came to be known were everywhere. Not exactly homeless but with no real address anymore.
The men travelled mostly alone but the women were found in small groups, often with children.
Wanderers would leave markings on the sides of houses or fences to let the next wanderer know if the house was friendly and would help them out, or hostile and armed.
Two circles covered by an ‘X’ was marked as unfriendly, and could cause a house to suddenly go up in flames, mysteriously in the middle of the night. Or the family that lived inside would find that someone had cut the electrical lines into their house.
Three wavy lines horizontally one on top of the other would ensure a steady stream of wanderers knocking at their door. But it was also a certain kind of protection. Everyone knew not to mess with the house that was offering shelter to a wanderer. That was to ask for more trouble and everyone already had enough trouble.
Members of the Butterfly Project were aware of the wanderers and it didn’t take long before someone put the idea into the crowdsourcing on Pastebin that this network could be used to their advantage. They made sure to put out the word to every Butterfly across the world that they were to welcome in any wanderer and give them what they could.
While a wanderer was there they would indoctrinate them with the idea that everyone could work together. They would be like bees spreading pollen.
The Butterfly Project’s mission was more about planting an idea then it was about money or power. It was a different kind of power.
Charlie easily fell in with a group of wanderers outside of a Delaware railyard on his way to West Virginia. He knew some of them had to be veterans of the recent civil war based on the way they took charge and gave everyone something to do. They ate hunched over their food with their arm out, as quickly as they could and kept a steady eye on the horizon. He did his best to say as little as possible and took to giving different names with different groups. Even that didn’t make him stand out.
Identity had become fluid for a lot of people. The virus that the Butterfly Project had planted in all of those systems had gone beyond its original mission, in some cases, latching on to similar information and destroying Social Security and service records. In some cases, entire social media accounts were wiped out as if the person had never existed.
Their past sins, old debt that had followed them around for years pointing out how they had wasted their money had disappeared. They weren’t about to let anyone remind them.
Charlie knew because he was one of those people. His entire past was wiped clean. At first, he thought it was the doing of the Order to try and give him a fresh start. But he had heard the rumors around town and several of the wanderers had confirmed it for him.
The ability to put a life onto the internet had been intoxicating at first and by the time anyone had realized what a trail they were leaving it was too late. The internet never knew how to forget anything.
So, when the lucky few, the lucky thousands who not only had their debt erased, but their identity, woke up that day and after they realized what had happened, some of them saw an opportunity.
An even smaller number took their time, thinking about who they would become, mapping out their return.
One night, sitting around one of the fires somebody had started in a few old blue oil cans, each four feet tall, Charlie listened as the men went around in a circle and said who they would be, if they could choose anyone. Most of them wanted to be some kind of modern-day king, ruling over their own little fiefdom.
Nearby, there was a peal of laughter from the crowd of women gathered around the fires in the other two cans. Small children ran in a circle around them, someone occasionally yelling at them to slow down, be careful. An organic kind of segregation between the men and women had sprung up on its own in all of the camps Charlie had seen. Order of some kind was restoring itself.
Charlie watched a boy and a girl chase each other, darting in and out of the nearby light and he thought of Maggie, the pain evident on his face. He turned back as someone elbowed him. It was his turn to imagine life after the Great Relief if choice was really, at long last tangible.
“I pass,” said Charlie, in a tone he hoped sounded menacing. He wasn’t interested in making up some bullshit story as a way to fit in.
Next to Charlie was an older man who looked like he had been homeless long before the Great Relief had occurred, and was doing what he would have been doing that night even if nothing had changed. Living outdoors, sitting around an open fire getting fellowship the only way he knew how. He had a longer view of things.
“I would look for a nice quiet job,” the old man said. Even in the dim light from the blaze, Charlie could see that he was missing a few front teeth. He would clamp his mouth shut every so often, and his lips would pucker from being mashed together. “Something that you could do every day,” he said, “the same way you did it yesterday. One of them cubicles would be perfect. Hang a few pictures of something, even if I had to tear it out of a magazine. A place to keep a coffee mug. A place where I knew every two weeks somebody would put something in an account for me.”
“Money don’t mean nothing,” said a younger man, who looked like he might be on the same path of homelessness. There was a general sound of laughter and hooting from around the circle that was at least two deep of men crowding around the warm air.
“That won’t last long,” said the old man, rubbing the top of his bald head with his open hand. Charlie could see that there was an old scar across the top of his head surrounded by an assortment of brown spots.
“You see, we like to act like we don’t like need each other. But human beings, eventually we like to form into groups of every size, shape and color. Sure, there’s a few who need to go off and live by themselves but they’re the exception. Hell, even a body that doesn’t have a place to call a home goes and looks for other bodies who are living in cardboard boxes and sidles one up right next to them. A nice Frigidaire box next to a neighbor who’s made something out of a few good sticks and some cloth. It just goes to show that we all need it. Deep down in our bones, in our very DNA,” he said in a twang Charlie recognized as something from the hills of Virginia.
“That’s how I know we’ll all be okay. Because just as much as we like to play together, we also like to know who’s the big dog, and who’s the little yapper. Money’s the best way to do it. Someone is already thinking of a way to offer us something that we’ll want more than we’ll want to avoid taking their money. Then the party will be back on.”
Charlie settled back on his heels, thinking about what the old man had said. People weren’t going to tolerate getting by for long without some kind of structure. He wondered if the Butterfly Project had considered that there were too many pockets of people in the world who either wanted some of the power or wanted someone to just tell them what to do. It couldn’t be possible to reach them all in time to make them consider a new way of doing things.
Not unless there was something, something tangible that the members of the Butterfly Project could offer the world on a big enough stage that would make them want to participate in a permanent kind of crowdsourcing.
&nb
sp; He quietly peeled away from the crowd and found a spot by himself near an empty railcar. Some things were still being transported across the country but most of it had stopped until further notice. There was no point in shipping things that no one knew how to barter for and wasting all of that precious fuel.
Instead, there were reports of giant open bazaars, like the western world had been ratcheted back two thousand years.
Charlie pulled himself up into the empty car and slid back on his butt into the shadows. He pulled out the burner phone he always kept with him.
“Norman, it’s me, Charlie. Can you get a message to Ned? Tell him I have an idea that just might work and if it wouldn’t defeat George Clemente it would at least put an end to his big plans. No, I need to tell him directly. Tell him he can call me on this number. It’ll give me a little time to think about it, flesh it out more anyway. Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. You understand, I had to get out of there, get out of Philadelphia. I wasn’t built for that kind of life. If you don’t mind, don’t share this number with anyone else. I’m sure all of the good Fathers are looking for me. I’ll explain another time.”
He hung up and rested his back against the wall of the railcar, listening to the sounds of what had become a village.
There was a rustling just outside of the railcar and it sounded like somebody was searching for something. Charlie drew back further into the darkness and listened, holding as still as possible.
“I’m telling you I saw him come this way,” said a deep voice of what sounded like an older man.
“You sure it’s him?” asked another man.
From the sound of their voices it sounded like they were searching under each of the railcars. It wouldn’t be long before they would start looking inside of them. Charlie had a feeling he knew who they were looking for, and it wasn’t good.
“The reward said, dead or alive. I say dead.”
“We could just take his head with us to prove it was him. Save us a lot of trouble. Wonder what he did to make someone so mad they’d offer so much just for his hide.”
“Does it matter? Seems like you’re focusing on the wrong thing. Can we not overthink this one? We needed a score, we’re going to get a score.”
The two men were right by the open door of the railcar. Charlie held his breath as one of the men leaned in, peering into the darkness.
“I don’t see nothing in here,” said the younger of the two men. At one point he was staring straight at Charlie’s face, even if he didn’t know it. Charlie was still holding his breath. It had been so long he was convinced he would soon pass out and be found when his head hit the hard floor.
“Come on,” said the older man. “We don’t want to give him a chance to get away.”
Their voices grew further away as the younger man said, “What would they even pay us with? I mean, it’s not like money works very well these days.”
“You’re not always as stupid as you act. I made a deal for a place to stay and enough canned food for a year, with some free utilities thrown in on the top.”
“That is a good deal,” said the young man. “If anybody else thought of that same deal then Charlie Foyle is a dead man.”
Charlie finally let out the breath he was holding, and gulped in more air. He saw small dots of light right in front of his eyes and shook his head trying to regain his wits. He tried to let himself relax and leaned back against the rough wood. He could already feel the cramping in his back.
He pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and dialed another number.
“Hello Fred? It’s me, Charlie Foyle. It doesn’t matter where I am. I called you because I need help. It seems that George Clemente put a price on my head. As far as I can tell it’s a place to stay and enough food for a year. I don’t know. I have something I have to do first and I need to get to West Virginia. I have a feeling you know where all the safe houses are between central Ohio and West Virginia.”
Fred Bowers was standing next to Father Michael when he got the call.
“Who is it?” asked Father Michael.
“An operative who’s out in the cold. Apparently there’s somebody who still trusts me. Go figure.”
Fred turned his back to the minister, not sure if he should say anything. It really was none of his business and he didn’t want to get more involved in whatever was going on between the two of them. He had his own agenda.
“Hang on for just a minute,” he said, as he went it out into the long main hall of the rectory at Saint Stephen’s Church.
“Why are you calling me?”
“You’re the only one of the phone numbers I memorized that I thought could actually help me right now.” Charlie cautiously peered out of the opening of the railcar and look to the left and the right. There was no one around.
“Look, all I need is an address or two and a couple of names so they’ll let me in,” said Charlie. “I can’t guarantee I won’t bother you again after that but I’ll try and keep it to a minimum.”
“I know where you’re headed, don’t do it. If anybody spots you, they’re going to assume you’re heading for your family.” Fred hesitated wondering if he should say anything else but then he thought of Maureen, and how she had died at the hands of Clemente. He knew what it was like to lose someone you love and only be left with revenge.
“The only thing that someone stupid enough to take up Clemente on his bounty will think is that they might get more with four bodies instead of just one. Knowing Clemente, it’s probably true,” said Fred, a bitterness to his voice.
“Do you have those names? I’m not going through life with a family in name only. It’s not worth it. What’s the point of doing any of this if I’m in exile from the one place I want to be. Right next to my family.”
“How far are you from Marietta?” asked Fred. He was tired of trying to protect anyone. Better to let people do what they wanted to do. Besides, maybe Charlie was right.
“I could get there tonight,” said Charlie. He started to relax. Maybe things would work out after all.
“There’s an old abandoned Esso station, right on the main street. Behind it you’ll find a narrow paved road. If you’re not looking for it you could miss it. Follow it up to the small house that sits back from the road. But don’t walk right on the road. There are cameras everywhere and they would take you for an idiot or an intruder and shoot you before you got to the door.”
“I’ve been doing this a while,” hissed Charlie into the phone. He was hungry and tired. “What name do I have to ask for?”
“Tell them you’re an old friend of Eddie Munster. Word to the wise, even if you already know everything. Don’t tell them your real name, not ever. Loyalties are a little fluid these days and you never know when someone might see a house and a lot of food as a good enough reason to turn over somebody they don’t trust anyway. Don’t even tell them you’re a friend of mine. It’s too close of an association. You know, six degrees of separation.”
“Thank you Mister Bowers.”
“Don’t thank me for helping you to do something stupid. I don’t want to feel responsible when this doesn’t work out the way you hoped. Get going, get it done, and get back on the road. If you live through all of that and call me again, I’ll tell Father Michael where you are. Not because I’m trying to turn you in but because I’m trying to bring you in.” Fred hung up without waiting for an answer.
Charlie pulled out the paper map he had stolen from a convenience store days ago and slid out of the railcar to find a patch of light. He would have to take a chance and stand out in the open long enough to know what direction to head in next to get himself to Marietta, Ohio as fast as possible.
There had been a phone number on the scrap of paper Father Gabriel had given him and he was tempted to call and see if his mother would be on the other end. He wanted to tell her he was on his way but he couldn’t be sure of who else could be listening and what they would do with the information. All the old lines between the Circle a
nd Management weren’t as strong as they used to be and Charlie knew that in times like these, someone who was a friend yesterday might turn him in today.
He walked around the edge of the camp, keeping just out of the firelight and headed south toward Marietta, choosing to walk the thirty miles to his next destination.
When he finally got to the house he found what he suspected was a Circle operative and his family camped out, eating what looked like must’ve been food stored for operatives who had nowhere else to go.
“Eddy Munster sent me,” said Charlie.
The man reluctantly let him in, still obeying protocol even after the Great Relief.
His wife and two small children were huddled on the far side of the room, cowering as if Charlie might be a threat.
“I’m just here to get some rest and then get on my way,” said Charlie. “Thank you for taking me in and even though you didn’t ask, you know it’s protocol not to talk about what I see or hear in a safe house. Let’s just assume, despite how the world is changed, I’m going to keep up that practice. If you have any food you can spare, it’d be greatly appreciated. I don’t need much, but it’s been a few days.”
The small boy let go of his mother and cautiously walked toward Charlie, pulling an energy bar out of his pocket that he held out at a distance by the corners.
“Thank you,” said Charlie, smiling so he would look friendlier.
The boy wrinkled his nose as he got closer and Charlie realized he hadn’t had a bath in well over a week, since he had left the Order in Philadelphia.
“Water still on?” Asked Charlie.
“This house is on a well,” said the man. “Mind if I grab a shower before I get some rest? I promise I’ll be on my way before the sun is even up. I have somewhere I need to be. Mission-critical.”
“Help yourself,” said the man, as he pointed toward the bathroom. “First door on your right. Can’t do much about a clean towel but there’s probably one in there that you can find that will do the job.”
