Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  * * *

  I wake from a dream, quite real, of long-tailed rodents scratching at my face and arms. I jerk upright and brush the dirt and debris from my skin, wipe the drool from my mouth and look from my sleeping brother to the truck and back again to my brother. My brother. Harmon.

  Another scream and I’m fully awake and Harmon moves, too. We jump to our feet. Race to the truck. Mira and Kassandra are gone. I recognize the shrieks. They’re Gresham’s. I hear, too, the gentle sobs of his mother. They remind me of the time she cried when she found the dried flower that had been in Lydia’s hair. It was stuck to the camp well contraption in my belt sack. My few possessions were hers when we married. I could’ve lied to her about my feelings but I didn’t then. Later I did.

  Another cry. Another sob.

  “Over there!” Harmon points and we run across the open area, through the woods, and down a path to a quiet creek. Kassandra is sitting on a rock, the baby crushed against her chest, his tiny body bare. Blood drips from his arm.

  “What are you doing?” I yell the stupid question, but there is no need for an answer. Mira has a leather purse laid open, a vial of red ink and needles rest against the side. Gresham’s elbow will be sore for a few days, but he won’t remember the tattooing.

  Mira reads my face, calms me with an explanation. Ronel had asked her to bring the ink. She holds it out to me and says, “I’ll take the baby and you can ink Kassandra. She’s ready.”

  * * *

  A mile on from the parking lot camp, Flor and Sana held hands as they marched behind the others. Whispered assurances from their mother that they would all escape like Kassandra, Dalton, and the baby, did not elicit any prophetic promises from Sana. Nor did Deandra make any guesses.

  A certain soldier scowled at them often, drew his whip out and snapped at the legs of the men ahead or the women behind the Luna girls. They huddled closer and trudged along thankful that the soldier spared them time and again. Even as they lagged farther and farther behind, the guard continued to ignore them and punished others instead, until finally they were at the tail end of the procession.

  The guard stood to the side as they passed and then he hailed the mounted lieutenant.

  He pointed toward the Lunas and said, “That woman and her daughters are Reds, but they have no tattoos. Law says death. I can take care of that before we enter Exodia.” He drew his gun.

  The lieutenant patted the sweaty neck of his horse, looked from the round-faced guard to the stumbling group of Lunas, and called for them to halt. The seven turned back with a single shiver, every one of the girls touching their mother–hand, sleeve, shoulder–every one of them terrified.

  “Show your elbows.”

  They bared their arms, Flor offering both elbows, the pointed ends sticking out like broken wings.

  The lieutenant laughed, his face turning purple. “Too bad. Truslow’s law means death for you.”

  Mrs. Luna tilted up her head and spoke, “It’s an evil law, a millstone on us.”

  “Exactly right. But drowning you with a millstone wouldn’t be as quick as this soldier’s gun. Do it. Over there.” His horse backed up a step and the soldier cracked his whip at the girls’ feet. They jumped toward the wooded side of the road.

  Sana dropped Flor’s hand and fell to the ground. The seizure lasted only a moment before she rolled over and started to get on her knees.

  “Shoot that one first,” the lieutenant snarled. His eyes gleamed oily black.

  Sana stared at him. “Evil law. Millstone on us.” Her lips turned down and her chin quivered. She turned her head and looked toward her family. “Some Lunas will not live.”

  The lieutenant plucked a gun off the side of his saddle, nudged his horse into a trot, and rode toward Sana. She got up from her knees and started to run.

  The lieutenant pulled back on the reins, rose in the stirrups, and took careful aim. Katie and Marcela screamed for Sana to come back. Deandra stretched a pleading arm toward the other soldier, the one she was sure meant to help them.

  An abrupt blast from the lieutenant’s Stun-n-Run gun stopped Sana mid-stride. She sprawled forward and her body began to spasm.

  The lieutenant pressed the gun back onto a saddle clip and drew a different gun from the holster at his waist, changed the setting from automatic to single shot, and fired.

  Mother and daughters shrieked and cried, ran to Sana’s still body, and fell to the ground. The lieutenant pranced in a circle and took easy target practice on each one. One shot, one less scream. Another shot, another cry hushed.

  The guard looked on in shame. He holstered the gun he never intended to use and kept his jaw clenched. He silently promised himself that he would find the father.

  “Sorry if I stole your fun,” the lieutenant said as he jiggled the reins. “Go look for other law-breakers and you can have a turn.” He glanced back at the huddled mound of what he considered human garbage and gave a final snort.

  Not a single Luna moved. Not one.

  * * *

  Thanks to Barrett’s sharp hearing, he and Lydia were well hidden in the trees before the troops and the refugees shredded and widened the way into Exodia.

  As soon as their resistance leader, Teague, was arrested, Lydia begged Barrett to take her to Ronel. All of Exodia was in a panic. Executive President Truslow believed that the present chaos was a necessary stage in his power plan. But Lydia was certain he was designing their extinction to look self-inflicted.

  For days there had been an influx of Reds, herded through the city, and interned in filthy camps or incarcerated in abandoned factories. No one was safe. Some of her neighbors had disappeared.

  Barrett broke a small branch off and poked Lydia. They sat perched on strong limbs on opposite sides of a thick tree trunk and he got her attention as quietly as he could.

  What?

  Look there, he mouthed.

  She followed his pointing stick and watched as a horse soldier and a foot soldier wedged off a small group of women and girls. At least three looked to be her age. She tightened her arm around the tree and watched. At first she thought they were going to give aid to one of the small girls who fell and had trouble rising up.

  The horseman drew his gun. The sharp report stung her ears and did worse to Barrett. He nearly lost his balance. Lydia wanted to look away, but each successive murder held her attention more intensely. One by one the shrill voices were silenced but the piercing shrieks in her head grew louder. She clung to the tree so hard that rather than the bark gouging her soft palms she thought she must be the one leaving marks behind.

  The rider holstered his gun as he pranced his horse around the single soldier, said something, and trotted on as if he had merely been shooting bottles off a rock.

  The foot soldier walked a few steps then turned back and examined each body. He pulled one out of the tangle of arms and legs and blood and seemed to whisper in the poor girl’s ear.

  Lydia wiggled a leafy branch to get Barrett’s attention. What did he say?

  Barrett held a finger to his lips and waited until the soldier caught up to the others. He whispered, “He said he’d come back for her. She must not be dead.”

  It was difficult to wait until the last of the mass of people had gone from sight. Cautiously they descended. Barrett stepped out into the road first and kept Lydia behind him with a wave of his hand. They crossed over and he kept his body between her and the grisly sight.

  Tears gathered in Lydia’s eyes. She thought she was pretty hardened by her life, but she had never seen a person executed before, let alone gotten this close to a corpse. She grabbed for Barrett’s hand. He guided her to the sole victim that the soldier had moved aside. Together they bent close and listened for her breathing.

  “She is alive,” Barrett said. “Stay with her and I’ll check the others to be sure.”

  Lydia took the girl’s hand and tried to coax her to open her eyes. Soft words, gentle squeezes. That was all she could offer other than a
drink from the bottle in her belt sack. If only the girl would open her eyes.

  Barrett returned and shook his head. “We’ll have to take her somewhere for help before that soldier comes back for her.” He lifted the girl’s arm and checked her elbow. “No tattoo.”

  “Let’s not worry about that now.” Lydia checked the girl all over for bleeding. There were a few red smudges, but no bullet wounds. Finally she inspected the blond hair. Her fingers came away bloody. There was a deep gash on the back of the skull. “I don’t think he shot her. He must’ve missed, but she fell on a rock and got knocked out.” She gave the girl’s cheek a few mild slaps.

  Her eyes opened. “Where? What?”

  “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

  The girl struggled to sit up and caught sight of her family. Barrett moved to block the bloody scene.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  She began to cry and grabbed both their arms. Through the sobs she told them who she was.

  * * *

  I finish with Kassandra’s elbow and wonder what made her change her mind, but we’ve been silent throughout this little ordeal and I’m afraid that she might burst into tears if I ask now. Mira has been slow dancing the baby who hasn’t made a peep. I hope he’s not traumatized. There’s a small bottle of anesthetic and I give Kassandra a quick dose. She voices her relief and I’m glad to know it works so fast and that my son experienced the same instant peace.

  She looks at me with watery eyes. I give her a weak hug.

  We go back to camp where Harmon gives us each an apple and some water. He’s anxious to get us to Exodia, to put the plan in place, to be the one who speaks. He shows me a suitcase full of fantastic gadgets that will give us power. I’m skeptical because I’ve seen my grandfather’s cache of deadly persuaders: armaments that convince brave men that they are weak, weapons that put down uprisings in minutes, an arsenal of improbable devices that will change an angry crowd’s objective.

  Kassandra and Mira stand a few feet back and watch.

  Harmon uses his fingertips to pull out five multi-jointed tubes, each about ten inches long. He clamps them together until it resembles a metal cane made of fifty cartridges. He rests one end on the ground and holds the top tip between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Watch this,” he says. He lifts it up from the ground and with a flick of his thumbnail he engages the mechanics of it and the individual sections come alive. It writhes like a snake.

  “What does it do?”

  “It burrows down and then tunnels north a preset distance. All fifty cubes unlink from one another, spread out a hundred yards, and detonate.”

  I’m impressed. I imagine the devastation such a device could’ve had on our town meeting. No need to march a city of people away. A deadly serpent. Delayed entraps.

  Harmon is still talking, explaining, describing, and then he clicks the snake’s head and the undulating abruptly ceases and the metallic rod snaps to attention. A straight stick. I think of Sana coming up with an anagram for that phrase too: stacks airtight. I shake my head, envisioning my little sisters, how scared they must be. A rush of regret depresses me. I have a dreadful premonition. We shouldn’t have left them.

  Harmon is careful about separating the three pieces. He nestles them in their molded spots and reaches for another item, already churning out the academics of its use. I stop him. I hear the far off buzz of an aircraft.

  “We need to leave,” I say, as if I’m already the leader of this small group. Everyone obeys my subdued command.

  * * *

  We’re on the road, following the truck. The recharged solar Beast strains to keep up with my brother’s crazy speed. Rolling down the mountain, braking often, I’m more than a little concerned. And I’m apprehensive to be headed to meet with the leaders of the Reds: Teague and Hamlin and Korzon.

  And maybe to see Lydia. I brake again.

  Gresham begins to cry as if he senses my adulterous thoughts, that I would abandon him as well. But could I? The guilt from my killing sin sits as miserably on my heart as ever. To break Kassandra’s trust would complicate even more my already dissonant life.

  But my thoughts cannot be gathered back. We drive in silence as soon as Gresham begins to nurse. I steal a glance or two and envy him. What I really want to do is go back to the day before I saw Barrett being chased by the guard and climbing the fence. If I’d never looked out that grimy window maybe now I’d be somewhere else. And my life would be so much better … even with an arranged marriage by mother. I wouldn’t know she wasn’t my mother or that I had siblings. I wouldn’t know about those prophecies or the ledger or that a whole family of wonderful people could be herded into slavery.

  And David Ronel would just be a nice old man that people like my nanny told stories about. Not someone with power and plans, someone who won’t take no for an answer and is forcing me to be someone I don’t want to be.

  We reach level land with the brakes still intact and Harmon drives east at less intense speeds. Little by little he leads us southeast and then south and finally west. We have circled down into Exodia so we can enter from the side farthest from the capitol grounds. A good idea, I think, until a tractor pulls in front of Harmon and another slides behind me and we’re forced to slow down. Right before we come to an intersection both tractors stop and we are hemmed in at the sides by lines of people, Reds for sure, who hold serious weapons in their gnarled and weathered hands. This is not the greeting I expected.

  * * *

  Word had spread through the streets, aided by old solar phones and young runners, that special emissaries of David Ronel were arriving in Exodia from the east and that another small town’s worth of refugees were being herded in from the north by soldiers.

  Lydia sat with a traumatized blond teen, a girl close to her own age, who had witnessed the heartless extermination of her mother and sisters. Barrett had carried her all the way back to Lydia’s house and stood ready to run whatever necessary errand Lydia asked, whether for medicine or pseudo-doctor or grave diggers.

  The girl had cried uncontrollably when Lydia cleaned and bandaged her head wound, but now she was trying to pull herself together with halting shudders and broken sobs.

  Lydia spoke softly, “It’ll be all right, Katie. We’ll help you.” To Barrett she said, “Bear, I’ll stay with her. You go ahead and tell Korzon what we saw and maybe if it is Dalton who’s coming in from the east–”

  Katie grabbed at Lydia’s arm, stopped her in mid-sentence and shrieked the name. “Dalton? You know Dalton? He escaped! My sister–” She broke down again unable to make any further coherent response.

  “I’ve never seen anyone in such distress.” Barrett whispered to Lydia. They wrapped Katie in several blankets, gave her a warm drink, and then Barrett signaled that he was heading off, prepared to run the distance faster than any long-forgotten Olympian.

  Lydia touched his shoulder. “Good luck. Do not go anywhere near that death march.”

  Barrett lifted his left arm for a quick elbow thump, knowing she wanted to say something more, a greeting for Dalton maybe, though he hoped not, or a wish that she didn’t have to stay with the grieving girl and could go with him.

  He turned and ran.

  His gemfry gifts of speed and enhanced hearing made it easy for him to pick a safe route through the slum, past the capitol, and out to the eastern zone. He heard Korzon’s deep voice long before he reached the quiet crowd.

  Barrett found a spot behind the ring of Reds, mostly men, who listened intently. He didn’t understand the resistance he saw; the very men who sent him on missions to Ronel, to beg for help, to plead for the return of Dalton Battista, were putting up challenges to four people who stood beside a truck, digging through suitcases of mechanical magic. Two men, two women, one with a baby. All with dark red elbows. The blond mother seemed vaguely familiar and made him think of the injured girl back at Lydia’s.

  He stared at Dalton who seemed taller than
he remembered in spite of the fact that Barrett himself had grown a foot these last two years. Dalton’s shoulders were wider, his muscular arms thicker, his posture solid and self-assured. Another man, equally tall and dark and strong, his face so similar to Dalton’s that Barrett could imagine him as a security double, was doing all the talking, showing what the cases held, demonstrating miraculous power.

  “This is good,” Korzon proclaimed. “This is very good.” He looked around the crowd, daring them to refute his pronouncement. He nodded at Barrett and two others. “Take them to the safe house. And you, Hamlin, set up a meeting with Truslow. And Dalton,” he nodded almost reverently, “you do the talking. Take just the one case. We’ll hide the rest.”

  Barrett could hear Dalton let out a held breath and stutter a reluctant yes. He caught his eye as he moved forward to help with the gear. He wasn’t prepared for the grin and excited greeting.

  “Bear!” Dalton clapped his friend on the back and ignored the standard greeting for a more personal back pounding. “You’re tall.” His eyes flickered past him, looking for someone, then returned to Barrett’s face and held. “How are things?”

  Barrett nodded his head without thinking then changed it to a slow shake. “Not good. We really need you.”

  Dalton took a step back. He introduced Mira and Harmon and finally Kassandra and Gresham. Barrett kept his response as formal as he could. He could only raise half a smile. This Kassandra, this wife of Dalton, had eyes and hair to match Katie’s. And Katie had spoken Dalton’s name. Barrett wanted to be happy for Dalton, but Lydia was going to suffer at this knowledge, and that poor girl … his mind flew through gemfry visions.

  Two men came up to move the tractors and others took the truck and car and drove them away. A larger truck pulled up and Barrett along with two more escorts sat in the back with Dalton and his family.

  * * *

  I sit on the hard bench next to Kassandra and take the baby from her for the bumpy ride in this canvas-covered truck that reeks of sweat and dirt–a truck so much like the work trucks we passed yesterday that a shiver races down my back and I see an armed guard for an instant. As the ghostly image of him evaporates I count the souls around me. My knee jostles against Kassandra’s and I see another vision, a scrap of knowledge, and I turn my head quickly to my left and catch my wife blushing at Bear. I look down at my son and wonder at my mix of sensations. My thoughts are reeling, my heart rate is speeding up, my hands feel clammy, and my knee keeps tapping hers. I stare at Barrett and he glances away from Kassandra, to the floor, then to me.