A light rain had begun to fall as they reached the border of Promise. The prints were starting to wash away in the rain. Lucy was growing increasingly worried that the man would get away.
They reached some thick brush, forcing them to slow down. Here, the man had made no attempt to conceal his tracks; the trail was lit up with markers of his passage. Flattened brush and snapped twigs and branches were left in his wake as he careened through this part of the woods.
“Look there!” Lucy called out.
A spot of dark liquid had drawn her attention. It looked like blood. She dismounted her horse and stepped up to a tangle of vines. It was definitely blood. The unmistakable teardrop-shaped splatters of dark crimson liquid stained the leaves and wet grasses.
The trail of droplets veered off from the main pass into much thicker and thornier terrain. They would not be able to continue on horseback. Jack dismounted the horse, and they secured the two animals to a thick, low-hanging branch of a large oak tree.
Lucy and Jack drew their weapons as they left the well-marked trail. They moved slowly and in tandem; the rain had largely let up. Any precipitation still falling was largely captured by the trees’ thick canopy overhead.
“Let’s split up,” he said.
She nodded.
“Stay frosty,” she said in a whisper.
The escapee had left the faintest trail ahead. She moved slowly but not too slowly, as the forest was often quick to revert to its original shape and swallow up any sign of interlopers. She kept an eye on Jack, who was blazing his own trail just to her west.
Although Lucy knew these woods well, they seemed particularly ominous as she picked her way through. Tree branches and thorny vines pulled and tugged at her shirtsleeves and pantlegs. Every minute or so, she would pause and listen, hoping to catch the sound of the prisoner on the move. His escape was nothing short of a disaster. She was second-guessing every decision they made regarding the prisoner. Perhaps if they had put someone else on the cell, this wouldn’t have happened. It certainly wouldn’t have happened if Jack had been on guard.
Perhaps it was a sign that they had grown soft. After all, they’d had a pretty good run of luck in the last couple of years. Food, shelter, clean water, reliable trading partners. It wasn’t easy, not by a long shot. It wasn’t like life before the Pulse. That life was probably over forever. But even now, you still had your haves and your have-nots. And this prisoner posed a threat to all of that. A harbinger of trouble that lay ahead. The canary in the coal mine.
A gunshot rang out, breaking her out of her reverie. She dropped into a crouch and skittered behind the cover of a large oak tree. Here, she was well-concealed by the underbrush, but she was unable to see the shooter. A second bullet struck her tree fairly high up. The sound of splintering bark was close by. She froze, holding her breath, careful not to make a sound.
She made herself small, dropping into a deep crouch, pressing up against the ancient tree’s sturdy trunk. As frightening as it was, the good news was that they had caught up to their prey. They still had a chance to re-capture him. And the odds were in their favor.
Another burst of gunfire pierced the morning calm. These were different rounds; perhaps Jack had a bead on the prisoner. Several minutes passed without any additional activity. She edged her way around the base of the trunk, keeping her sidearm raised. She saw no sign of Jack or the prisoner.
They were about fifty yards off the primary trail in a section of the forest bracketed on the east by a two-lane highway. If the fugitive made it to the highway, his chances of escape would increase exponentially.
The unmistakable crack of snapping branches nearby drove Lucy’s heart rate sky high. The second twig breaking let her triangulate the source of the noise on the far side of the tree. She reared up to her full height, kept her back pressed against the trunk. She edged around, keeping the gun up and preparing to fire.
There was a small clearing on the far side of the tree in between the exposed roots in another curtain of tangled lines just ahead. The brush rippled as a figure made his way through it. She slid her finger onto the trigger, prepared to fire. She could just make out a figure crouched low in the underbrush. There was a gap between the branches, revealing a man’s arm bearing a tattoo of a playing card with skulls in each of its four corners.
She exhaled a sigh of relief, recognizing the tattoo instantly.
It was Jack’s.
“Psst,” she hissed. “It’s me.”
He emerged slowly from the brush, his face and arms scratched to hell.
“Did we lose him?” she asked, lowering her weapon.
“I could hear him a bit farther east,” Jack replied. “I think he made it to the highway.”
Lucy’s heart sank.
“Dammit,” she said. “We can follow on horseback.”
They crashed through the brush back to the trail where they had parked the horses. They rode hard, but it still took fifteen minutes to make it to the main road. An old blue Cadillac that had died on the day of the Pulse kept its lonely watch on four flat tires on this stretch of Route 726. The car was an old friend by this point, getting a little older and rustier with each passing year. The road itself was covered with dead leaves and twigs. It was still in good shape mostly, but it was starting to show signs of inattention. Lucy gazed east while her brother turned his eyes to the west. The highway was empty in either direction.
“Let’s split up,” Jack said. “If you see him, you take him out,” he said.
Lucy nodded. That had been her plan, much as she hated it. They could not take any chances. They exchanged a fist bump; Lucy headed west, and Jack went east. They agreed to search until dark before meeting back at home.
“Be careful,” he said.
“You know it.”
Lucy kept her horse at a brisk pace, pausing for water breaks at familiar creeks and streams in the area. She had covered five miles by early afternoon, but there was nary a sign of their fugitive. She kept her eye on the shoulders of the road, looking for any clue as to his presence. At one point, a rustling in the trees caught her eye, and she froze. She drew her weapon and aimed it at the rippling brush. It turned out to be a small deer making her way through the day.
It was the only sign of life she detected. Two miles farther up, she turned back for home.
The edge of twilight was upon her by the time she reached home. Her inbound trip proved to be no more fruitful than the outbound. She was exhausted and starving. She stabled Pancake, making sure to give him an extra serving of oats and water before leaving him for the night.
Jack had not returned, so she waited for him at his tent. Pogo, Jack’s dog, lay obediently at her feet, seeming to sense her troubled soul. Finally, just before the final light of the day had drained off, Jack appeared in the gloom. The dejected look on his face told Lucy all she needed to know.
The man had gotten away.
8
The June Market day was the biggest of the year. Like all Market days, it was held on the fifteenth of the month, in that sweet spot between the last of the winter root vegetables and the bumper crop of summer produce that was in full swing right now. Promise sent half a dozen people on horse-drawn wagons loaded down with goods to trade; they came back with wagons just as heavy.
The Market was held in the town square fronting the Goochland County Courthouse. The square featured a large, open plaza with ample room for multiple vendors. The Market had been held each month for nearly four years now. It was the brainchild of Sean Paling, a small dairy farmer in Caroline County, a rural community about thirty miles north of Richmond. In the days following the Pulse, he quickly realized the coming food security calamity awaiting virtually every man, woman, and child in the country. As a dairy farmer, he needed feed to keep the milk flowing and his animals alive. He began cutting deals with nearby farms for produce, meats, and medicine.
Soon, a new mini economy featuring many small communities had formed, necessitating a more central location. Al
l were welcome to trade at the open market. It operated on the barter system, as cash had become virtually useless within weeks of the Pulse. The Market was ruled by a seven-member governing body, one person from each of the seven different permanent communities. Terms lasted for a single year, and no one could serve more than two terms consecutively.
There were at least two dozen booths today. It had a been a good spring, and the selection was plentiful. Goods would be cheap. The basic principles of supply and demand still applied in their post-apocalyptic economy. There were fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, candles, soaps, ammunition, and medical supplies. Herbs in particular had grown in value with each passing year as the supply of manufactured pharmaceuticals continued to dwindle and people began to rely on herbal remedies. Lucy had been studying this subject intently; she had stacks of books on them in her clinic office. Mark Ellis was an amateur botanist and manager of the Promise farm, and was quite adept at identifying plants that they could repurpose as medicines.
It had been three weeks since the bandit’s escape from Promise. The other shoe had yet to drop. They had detected no unusual activity in the immediate vicinity of Promise. Lucy wanted to believe that they were safe, that in the chaos of his escape, the man had lost his bearings and had been unable to find them again. It would be nice to have something go their way. Their worst fears didn’t always have to be realized.
But they were still concerned. Shoring up their defenses had become a priority for the Council. As Promise’s head of security, Jack spent much of his free time patrolling the area, on the hunt for scouts or other malcontents who might wish them harm. He often came to the Market but had not made the trip this time. He wanted to stay close to home. This was fine with Lucy; she trusted him to keep them safe. It let her focus on her work in the clinic.
Nancy Hankle led their caravan to their pre-appointed spot, wide enough for a dozen tables. They spent an hour setting up their wares. Six people were assigned to man the tables; the rest would stalk the market, looking to make deals. Ideally, they would unload their entire stock and return home with all new goods. If they brought it to trade, they had plenty of excess back home. It wasn’t a perfect loop at Market, but it often worked out that way. Each community was usually able to offer something the others couldn’t.
For the first year, Lucy’s medical expertise had been in high demand. Her medical skills returned a bumper crop of supplies. But then a community called Eastborough had found itself a physician in a recent wave of arrivals, sending the price of her services down. Plus, as people had become more comfortable with DIY medicine, they were less likely to seek out trained medical professionals. Sure, it led to a few more negative outcomes, but not so many that it warranted trading a week’s worth of supplies for a day with a nurse.
Today, Lucy was on the hunt for ammunition. In the wake of the ambush, they wanted to build up Promise’s stores. Everton had developed a method to manufacture ammunition, a skill that was in high demand; the community was small, but poured all its efforts into its production lines. Its factory was hidden. Barrett Cash, a former newspaper reporter, was its leader. He had long carried a torch for Lucy, but she had rebuffed his advances. She told him the distance between their communities made it more trouble than it was worth, but that wasn’t the complete story. For now, she wasn’t interested in a relationship. He was quite handsome, she had to admit. He had gorgeous, shoulder-length black hair and high cheekbones. His father had been Japanese, his mother, an American teaching English in Tokyo. It had been a brief fling near the end of her tour of duty; his mother did not even know she was pregnant until she had returned to America.
She waited until Barrett had finished setting up before making her way toward his booth. He was sitting on a storage crate, reading a book. He was a big reader. It had been one of his most endearing attributes. Noticing her approach, he looked up from his book. Fe smiled broadly when he saw her.
“Hey, stranger,” he said.
It had been some months since they’d last seen each other. He still looked good, perhaps a little thinner than the last time they’d crossed paths. A few lines had formed at the corners of his eyes. He was a few years younger than her, so it pleased her that he was finally showing a little age. Despite turning him down with no regrets, she still felt butterflies in her stomach. It annoyed her that he had any kind of grip on her. She didn’t like being beholden to anyone, especially emotionally.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s happening?”
She hoped he was as uncomfortable as she was, but she doubted it. He certainly wasn’t showing it. He had a cool confidence about him. He rolled with the punches. It was what she liked most about him. He was a sharp contrast to her brother, who was quick to fly off the handle. Barrett never lost his cool.
“Fine,” she said, realizing her discordant reply a moment too late. “Not much, I mean. Our usual deal?”
“Sorry, Lucy,” he said. “I don’t have it today.”
“What do you mean you don’t have it today?”
“I just don’t have it today,” he said. “We’ve had some manufacturing problems.”
Barrett had never come to Market without ammunition. As valuable a commodity as it was, it was his only commodity. If he really didn’t have it, he wouldn’t have bothered making the long and dangerous trip here.
“So what’s in the crates?” she asked, gesturing at the three grey containers behind him.
He paused before replying, as though to come up with an answer she would find palatable.
“Some other odds and ends.”
“What happened to your factory?”
“We had a bit of a fire.”
He said it unconvincingly. Then he looked around furtively, as though to check if anyone was listening in. He motioned to her with two fingers, drawing her close to him. At first she thought he was going to try to kiss her, but the vibe was all wrong. The look on his face was not of the man getting ready for romance.
“My shop is fine,” he said softly. “Not about the shop.”
“Then what is it?” she asked.
A rustling sound behind her broke the intimate conversation. A big smile washed across his face. A big phony smile. Mari Hermansky, who lived at the Falls, approached Barrett carrying a small crate of peaches. She set them on his table.
“How are you, Mari?” He asked.
“Doing fine,” Mari replied. She was about Lucy’s height, straight, brown hair. She wore glasses; one of the lenses sported a hairline crack down the middle. These days, there was no eyeglass shop. She and Lucy weren’t exactly friends, but they never had a cross word before. It was surprising, then, to Lucy that Mari did not even acknowledge her presence.
Barrett turned away from the table and retrieved the small package from one of his containers. It was wrapped in coarse, brown paper, secured with string.
“The peaches are very good this week,” Mari said.
Barrett grabbed a peach and took a bite. Its juices stained his face.
“Mmm,” he said. “Delicious.”
“See you next time, handsome,” she said, taking the package with her.
“You’re terrible,” he said with another flash of that phony smile.
Mari left, leaving Lucy alone with Barrett once more. Lucy was boiling mad now, but she was careful not to show it. Something was going on, and she needed to find out what it was. Barrett could be very sensitive, and if she came on too strong, he would fold.
“Peach?” he asked, holding one up.
She ignored his weak attempt to skirt the subject.
Barrett returned the peach to the crate and set to work tidying his booth, humming a tune as he did so. She stood at his table, tapping it with her fingertips. She let him attend to his busywork, knowing that he was burning off nervous energy. There was something he wanted to tell her. The key was to let him tell her in his own time. After he had straightened the booth for the umpteenth time, he returned to his position a
t the table.
“What’s going on?” she asked as gently as she could.
“I don’t really know,” he said. “But there’s a new player in town. Some rough folks.”
“Go on,” she said, immediately recalling the trio of bandits she and Jack had tussled with.
“Not sure where they’re from,” he said. “But they’re bad news. You remember that guy Phineas?”
She did. He was a nomad, enjoyed life on the road. He made his living as a traveling musician, drifting around the state with his guitar. He put on live shows in exchange for food and medicine.
“He’d scheduled a gig at some community down near the airport,” he said. “When he showed up, everyone was dead. Just slaughtered.”
A chill ran up Lucy’s spine.
He seemed to be trembling. She lay a hand on top of his. His hand was cold and clammy. “Are they here today?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I haven’t seen them.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know much else,” he said. “It’s a big group. They may be trying to expand their territory.”
Lucy twirled a lock of her hair as she considered this new information. While troubling, the news wasn’t terribly surprising. Eventually, someone was going to make a move like this.
“Did they tell you not to trade with us?”
He nodded subtly.
“Thanks for the info,” she said.
She eased back into the crowd without another word. As she made her way back to her team, a sense of unease grew inside her. She became very aware of how the others were looking at her, acknowledging her. Were they shunning her? Were they ignoring her? Normally, people were happy to see one another at the Market. It was a welcome break in their routine, an injection of variety into their day-to-day lives.
Instantly, she felt like she wasn’t welcome. It was a bizarre feeling. One that she had never felt before.
Promise was one of the charter members of the Market, and all of a sudden, she felt like an outsider. She made a loop of the entire market, keeping to herself, avoiding any interaction with others. She didn’t want any more awkward exchanges like the one she’d had with Barrett. Back at the kiosk, Becky Alsen, Rowena Mills, and her sister, Heather Statler, were deep in discussion. Their tables were still loaded with the goods they’d brought to trade. Business was at a standstill. They typically saw steady business throughout the day. It confirmed what Barrett had told her. They were being blackballed. It confirmed her suspicion that the man they’d captured was one of them. And now they were being punished.
American Midnight | Book 2 | Nightfall Page 7
