by Brian Yansky
We bury the dead, and Running Bird says words over them. I hear people thinking that this is where we all will end up. I hear them feel more loss and pain.
After the funeral, Running Bird tells us all to rest while the scouts make sure the way south is clear. Michael, Catlin, and I find a spot in the woods away from the others. I lie beside Catlin, suddenly feeling shy. Michael isn’t far away, and he begins to snore. He is excellent at snoring, and Catlin and I start giggling. And then we aren’t giggling. We’re kissing. Kissing and joining. Pleasant as this is, we’re both exhausted, and after a while we’re content just to hold each other and fall asleep.
And then I dream.
And then I dreamwalk.
Big surprise.
It would be kind of nice if I could just sleep for once, but I guess that isn’t in the Big Book for me. Not now. I have to walk in the dreamworld. I feel I’m looking for something. Maybe the third way.
But it’s not the third way I find. At least, I don’t think it is. It feels like another moment, a distant moment.
“You see?” Catlin says. “It looks good.”
She’s showing me a room in a house, pointing out the way the new couch looks. I don’t know how I know it’s a new couch, but I do. Catlin’s older — years older — and I know somehow that I am, too.
A little girl comes running into the room, and I know it’s our little girl. I’ve got a little girl. I can’t believe it. I look at the wall where I know I keep the calendar from Betty. August 17, ten years from now. Ten years — but how?
“Daddy and I are talking, Cat,” Catlin says to the little girl.
Cat. That’s our name for her. I know this. She’s four.
“I know,” she says. “Daddy should play with me, though.”
I look at her, and I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she’s mine. She’s perfect.
“What’s wrong with Daddy?” Cat says.
I’m crying. I didn’t even realize it. “Allergies, Cat,” I say, stroking her head.
And the moment is gone. I’m back lying next to Catlin. But it is a moment, a moment of our future. But that’s not exactly right. It’s a moment of a possible future.
Catlin and Michael are still asleep, and I sneak away quietly and go look for Running Bird. I ask Zack, who is eating some canned peaches he’s saved, if he’s seen him.
“He’s just sitting on a rock. He looks like a statue. People are getting kind of worried.”
“Running Bird has his own way.”
“You can say that again.”
And I can’t resist because I’ll take the easy ones. “Running Bird has his own way.”
“Ha, ha,” he says. But he smiles, and I feel a slight lightening of his mood. Worth the effort. Totally worth it.
Zack wants to go with me, but I say I need to talk to Running Bird privately.
Running Bird is, as Zack said, sitting cross-legged on a rock, so still he might be a statue. With that stomach he does look a little like Buddha — well, a Hispanic, white, African-American, Native American Buddha.
“Running Bird,” I say when I get close. “Can I talk to you?”
“Don’t know,” he says. “Can you?”
He sounds so much like my mother, the English teacher, that I think he’s channeling her for a second.
“I saw a future,” I say.
“No such thing,” he says.
“Okay, a now. But a now that’s ten years away from this now.”
“And what did you see in this moment?”
“Catlin and I had a little girl.”
“That’s interesting,” he says.
“Interesting?” I repeat. “It’s more than interesting! It means that we have a future on that time line. We as in humans. It’s years from now — ten years, at least. We have a future.”
“So there is a third way,” Running Bird says.
“That’s what I’m saying,” I say. “There must be for that future to exist. But what is it? How do we get there?”
“You lead us,” he says.
“I don’t know how,” I say.
“Maybe the answer isn’t to go forward. Maybe it’s to go backward.”
“You mean . . . ? Wait, what do you mean?”
“Don’t try to figure out how to get there. Try to figure out how to get back here from there. Work your way back to this moment, and you’ll see how you got there.”
The thing about Running Bird is that for all his irritating habits and all his double-talk, he knows things. You could even say he’s wise in a twisted kind of way.
“That’s all, huh?”
“You want to save the human race, you better get walking.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Sit here. Nice view.”
Actually, it isn’t. There are a lot of nice views in these mountains, but this isn’t one of them.
“This isn’t a nice view,” I say.
“Can be if you know how to look.”
I look at him closely. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
“You’re the Chosen One. You should know.”
Yeah, he’s back to just plain irritating.
The scouts return, Zelda among them, and we gather in the clearing and divvy up the supplies. We do it as quickly as we can, but it takes a while because of the large number of people.
The old woman who complained about the snorer at that first town meeting gets her food. Then I notice who she’s with. It’s the snorer. She sees me notice.
“What?” she says. “I can’t have a boyfriend?”
“I just thought you didn’t like each other.”
“I mostly just use him for sex,” she says, and an image I seriously hope to never see again pops into my mind.
And then something else happens. She smiles. And it’s a beautiful smile. It really is.
And this little surprise feels big. It makes me smile.
And then I feel it, a slight dizziness, and then I’ve moved forward. I’ve moved to another place in time, but I’m here, too, at the same time. I’m in two places at once again.
Catlin gives me her almost smile from the passenger seat. We’re driving up MoPac into Austin. There’s a baby in the backseat in one of those car seats. Cat, I guess. I’m really nervous suddenly. What if I hit a bump? What if a squirrel runs in front of the car and I veer off the road without thinking?
Catlin’s blond hair is long. It goes all the way down her back.
“I’m glad we came back,” she says.
We’re listening to the radio. It’s a report. The government of New America, led by President Johnson, is having troubles. There’s a revolt in New New England, which I somehow know is a state now, and gangs of renegades in the New South and New Texas still control whole cities. I know these troubles have been going on for a long time.
Six states, I think. There are six big states now, and the government of New America is far too small to exert any real control over the states.
We come to a checkpoint with soldiers. We have to show papers. The soldiers direct us to a building where we have to register in order to stay in the city. This is how it is now. The city is “protected” by the soldiers, but anything outside of the city walls is not protected.
“She’s waking up,” Catlin says.
I look over my shoulder, and I see Cat’s eyes opening. I’m a father. How can I be a father? I can’t even take care of myself. She smiles at me. The baby smiles at me, and I know I am a father because my heart fills up with that smile. Nothing gets by it. Not the threats. Not the killings. Not the rumors of a new leader in New Texas heading this way whose powers are so strong that gangs of renegades are uniting behind him. All these things I know about, but none of them can get through that smile.
“Jesse?” Catlin says.
I blink at her. She looks so young. And yet the same, too. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. You went somewhere just then, didn’t you?”
I nod. S
omewhere. I can see the future because it’s now. I’ve always been able to see the past, like everyone. We’re all time travelers in that way. But I can go forward, too. And when I go, I’m there, really there, and here. It’s a lot to accept.
But if I do accept it — accept it and the possibilities of different futures — I see a universe full of choices.
“Where’d you go?”
I wonder if I should tell her. After all, she has just as much right to know about our future as I do. But what if telling her keeps it from happening somehow? I mean, we just kissed for like the first time. If this was the old world, this would be the time to ask her out to a movie or dinner or something. I sure wouldn’t be talking about our future kid.
It’s not the old world, though.
And we’re alive in the future. At least in that future. That is something pretty amazing. So I do tell her. I tell her everything.
It’s afternoon before we set out. The forest thickens and thins, and we go up and down hills and mountains. Sometimes we walk along a highway that winds through the country and sometimes through the forest. Running Bird seems to know this area well — well enough to guide us in the moonlight, because it isn’t long before we’re walking in the dark. Eventually we come to a stream, and Running Bird says this is a good place to stop for the night.
They’re waiting for us. They make sure we’re all at the stream or near it before they attack. I feel them before the others do, but not soon enough. They’re already killing before I can warn anyone.
I shout for people to join and raise shields. I feel the power of the aliens like an electric current rushing through the air. The hunters have that same wedge as before. They knew we were coming here, I think. There’s no other explanation for how they’re here. But there’s no time to think this over. There’s only acting and reacting.
I hear someone next to me say, “Madre!” right before he falls.
A wave of people die right in front of me.
Join! I mindshout. Defensive moves! Join! Defensive moves!
Some people do join. Some people do attempt some of the defensive moves we’ve worked on. Catlin and I create a shield that the hunters punch right through, but it slows them down a little. We create another, and another. We fight back. I see now that this is not the main group of hunters; there are only about ten of them. The Hunter is not among them.
Catlin and I kill one. The aliens kill three more of us. They’re strong and fast. Too fast. Too strong.
I unjoin from Catlin. I do something then. I don’t even know how I know to do it, but I do. I create some kind of wave, control some kind of energy that hits them hard enough some of them fall back. And I feel it. They’re confused. A few of them are afraid. They hesitate. That’s when I realize that their commanding officer is dead.
“Retreat!” I shout. Fall back!
We retreat, but it’s not an orderly retreat. People scatter. The hunters call for reinforcements, but they don’t try to follow us. They hold their position, trying to kill whoever is within their range.
We run through the woods. The darkness gives us cover but also makes running difficult, even dangerous. A lot of people fall. One woman has to be carried after spraining or breaking her ankle.
Eventually we gather at another clearing, this one smaller than the last. We call to each other in the dark. Catlin works on the wounded. Running Bird orders me to post sentries, and then he sends a scout back where we’ve come from to be sure the aliens aren’t following.
“How do they keep finding us?” I say, staying on my feet because I’m too worked up to lie down. I pace. My dad used to pace, and it irritated me and my mom, but here I am pacing just like he did.
No one answers. Catlin is busy working on the wounded. The other rebels are busy trying to catch their breath and grieving for the dead and fighting the feeling of — there’s no other word for it — doom. No one has an answer.
Another moment. I go to another moment instead of hearing an answer. I’m dying. The Hunter is standing over me. Running Bird is dead. Michael is dead. Sam is dead. Zelda is dead. Zack is dead. And Catlin, Catlin is dead, too.
You have been worthy prey, he mindspeaks. I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I see variations of my death, but they all end the same way. Everyone I care about is dead, and I’m the last to die — though I do die — I always die, and the Hunter is always saying, I’m sorry for your loss. Over and over and over.
I was beginning to believe in the future I’d imagined before, the future with Catlin and me alive together and with Cat. But that is just one version of the future. One of thousands of versions. I’m sorry for your loss. Maybe all but one ends with those words. How can I possibly find it?
“He’s stabilized,” Catlin says.
I nod distractedly. “How do they keep finding us?” I say again.
“I don’t know,” Catlin says. “Michael doesn’t have anything in him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve checked him closely.”
“Could you have missed something?”
“No,” she says, and then she stops. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“I didn’t check you or Zack or myself. I didn’t think —”
“Check me,” I say.
She finds it almost right away. He didn’t even bury it deeply. I just couldn’t feel it. I feel her pull it out of me, though, and I also feel a deep shame. Too weak to feel it. Too weak.
“Stupid,” she says. “I should have checked us all.”
“It’s my fault,” I say. “They’ve been tracking us through me.”
“You couldn’t know.”
Because we’re weak and they are strong. Just like they’ve always told us.
She checks herself and Zack. They’re both clean.
“Son of a female dog.” The Hunter had a contingency plan for his contingency plan. He used me. The son of a female dog used me.
“Put it back,” I tell Catlin.
“What?”
“Put it back in me.”
“But —” And then she realizes. “You’re sure?”
“I’m tired of running,” I say.
And she puts it back.
In the morning we go back to where we were attacked. If there are others from our group still out there somewhere, they might gravitate to this position.
There are no aliens at the clearing. I knew there wouldn’t be. For whatever reason, the Hunter couldn’t make the last ambush. He was probably pretty upset about that. He won’t decline the next ambush invitation. He’ll be right there at the front, leading. He’ll let us gather back together, and then he’ll make a special visit.
But it won’t be on his terms this time. I join with Catlin, and together we put out a call into the woods, telling any survivors from New America to meet up back at the clearing. We don’t even try to hide it. I’m sure the aliens can hear us. In fact, I’m counting on it.
Running Bird comes over from where he’s been tending to the wounded and asks me if I’m crazy. “Every alien in a ten-mile radius just heard that call,” he says.
They know where we are anyway, I mindspeak just to him. They’ve known all along.
He grabs my arm and leads me off a ways into the woods.
“Tell me,” he says.
So I do.
“I should have felt it,” I say. I do feel it now. I control it. What it transmits and what it doesn’t. But I’m too late.
“We have no time for guilt,” he says. “You need to lead us to the future where we survive. That’s what you need to do.”
I tell him I had Catlin put the tracker back in my brain. I tell him I can control it. Running Bird looks like he wants to argue, but then I feel him change his mind. He decides to trust me. We go back to the clearing and find Sam and have a meeting.
Sam listens and even seems to
agree about the element of surprise and how much of an advantage it is.
“We need to be ready,” I say. “We need to use guns. They’re good distractions. The aliens come in like a wedge every time, don’t they? They’re predictable. How can we use that against them?”
Sam devises a plan.
Is it a good plan? I’m no military person. I don’t know. I do know that this is a place, a moment, that’s very important on the line. There are a whole lot of possible bad moments beyond our fight with the Hunter. Thousands. More, probably. But I know there’s at least one good one. And I have to believe there’s a way to get there. I have to.
We tell everyone that we will be attacked again. The news goes over better than I thought it would. Most New Americans don’t panic. Everyone is scared, but there’s a kind of relief in finally making a stand against the aliens.
We practice scenarios of the attack and defensive moves and counterattacks. We drill. And then we drill some more. Zack is happy, and even Zelda seems to accept that this is the time to fight.
When we walk on toward Santa Fe, Running Bird and I are at the front of the New Americans, Sam and Michael and Catlin at the rear. The path is narrow and the woods thick around us for much of the way. Rocky sides of mountains hem us in. If we’re caught here on this path, we’ll be trapped. Hoping to get to a wider path or a more open area, I try to hurry the others.
We do, eventually, and we’re able to slow down, which is good because everyone is tired. We rest and walk and rest and walk the day away. No one attacks. It’s near dusk, near time to set up a camp, when we come to a clearing in the woods. Sam suggests that we go to the other side of the clearing and camp there.
We get sloppy as we cross the clearing and lose our lines. Everyone is ready to rest. I order them to re-form the lines, but they’re tired and the response is listless and uneven. When I turn back to try to get them to move, the attack starts.
There are two groups of them this time. A smaller group attacks from behind while the main group attacks from ahead, both in their standard wedge formation. I take a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that they think we’re dangerous enough to change tactics and make their attack less predictable.
