Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  Lydia and Barrett exchanged a glance punctuated by the distant bark of a wild dog.

  “Are you Mr. Luna?”

  His eyes widened. “I am.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean?” Harmon says as we walk up the river bank. “Like Blue blood as in royalty?” He laughs. “O’Shea isn’t exactly the most popular name in the Irish myths and legends I’ve heard. Which are few and far between. Except, of course, for the song of Bram O’Shea.”

  I want to groan at the thought of all the times I’d heard that song and didn’t understand. “I found a ledger in my grandfa–, in Bryer Battista’s archive. I tore out some pages. There’s mention of someone–I’m beginning to think it’s me–who is or was noble.”

  I picture the anagram harks nobilities and how in the ledger pages it said for he is noble.

  “Well, Dalton, you were raised as sort of a modern aristocrat. And what I know of you, brother, it seems you have high moral character. Principles. I guess that makes you noble.”

  A cloud of rats comes over the hill, backlit by the purple haze of a strange dawn. They run straight for us. “It’s amazing that this plague of rats is all part of David Ronel’s plan,” I say.

  Harmon shakes the rod. “And I told you what else this stick can do.”

  We walk through the roiling mess of animals, some as large as cats, and though they show off shining incisors and mouth our ankles they don’t do us any real harm at all thanks to how Harmon has lowered the pitch of the humming rod. They’re as annoying as buzzing flies. We reach the first of the slum streets and the rats run off to torment those walking toward the capitol grounds. I direct Harmon down the B streets and head for Lydia’s–the only place I want to be.

  * * *

  Mr. Luna leaned on both Lydia and Barrett and hobbled the last half mile. Something happened as the sun came up and people started venturing out into the streets and yards. Rats, small and large, healthy and crippled, young and old, converged on Exodia from every direction. Lydia’s heart was in her throat and Barrett was feeling the same anxiety. Always before the rats had kept to garbage dumps and were seen mostly at night. To see so many in the bright morning sunlight disturbed both of them.

  Mr. Luna mumbled, “It was in the stars. It was in the stars. Don’t be afraid.”

  The rats snapped at them, tore at their pants, jumped on them, and scratched their legs with claw or tooth.

  Lydia kicked them away from herself and Mr. Luna. Barrett reached in his belt sack for a knife, bent down and jabbed at the boldest ones. Some ran off, but some he managed to kill. The remaining rats turned their attention to the dead and dying.

  “One more block,” Lydia said. They stepped it up and when the house was in sight they began to yell for Mira, Katie, and Kassandra. Mr. Luna drew on what reserve strength he had at the sound of his daughters’ names. Barrett kept four rats at bay as Lydia and Mr. Luna slipped through the side door, but as Barrett entered a small one stole in between his legs.

  “Catch it!”

  Kassandra raised the baby over her head, Katie screamed, and Mira grabbed the rat by its tail and ran to the other door to toss it out.

  “What is going on?” she shouted as she returned. She stopped short and closed her mouth at the scene in the kitchen. The bedraggled man that Lydia had pushed into the kitchen stood with his arms around the sisters, weeping and praising God.

  Barrett explained the rescue to Mira, trying to speak over the happy sounds of the reunion. By the time he finished, those happy cries had turned to wails as Katie poured out the gruesome truth.

  Mira, Barrett, and Lydia moved into the living room. The cries from the kitchen were much worse than the squealing chaos outside.

  “What’s with these rodents?” Mira asked.

  Barrett shrugged. He had no idea what had made the rats get so bold.

  “Maybe it’s because of the bad water.”

  Lydia went to the window and watched as more rats gathered. She could see three or four at each neighbor’s door. Squeaking. Aggressively chewing. Clawing. Gnawing. As far down the street as she could see there were packs spreading out in every direction, hundreds more than they had encountered coming through the slum.

  “How can anyone go anywhere?” she mumbled. She saw two men striding down the middle of the street, the nipping rats running back and forth around them but giving them a measure of free space on every side, as if there were a force field enveloping them. She gasped and glanced quickly toward the kitchen. She whispered to Mira and Barrett, “Look.”

  * * *

  I enter first and then Harmon. He keeps his hand outside holding the long staff downward which keeps the rats away from us. He slips the rod through the last inch and slams the door. Instantly he stops the rod’s humming, but there are stranger sounds now, sobs and stuttering sighs.

  I see Lydia first, her face etched in fear, but her eyes soft with relief. Mira stands next to her, arms crossed against her chest. Her expression is unreadable. Harmon gives me a little push and I step fully into the room. My father-in-law is collapsed against Katie and Kassandra. They pull apart and I see Gresham, nearly crushed against Kassandra’s side, looking twice as big as the last time I saw him.

  The only greeting I get from Kassandra is something about my lack of hair, but Mr. Luna clasps my hand and pulls me closer into an embrace that falters. I have to hold him up. I am livid at how the Blues must have worked him too hard, fed him too little. His voice cracks out the individual names of his wife and daughters who are not here. I realize it’s not the lack of strength that breaks him.

  I hold him tighter.

  Chapter 12 Guilt and Lust

  From the fourth page of the Ledger:

  They died in the houses, in the streets, and in the fields. They were piled into heaps and the land reeked of them.

  THE HONKING DOWN the road was continuous and matched the volume of the barking dogs that were attacking the rats. The horn stopped as an armored government truck pulled up in front of Lydia’s house, crushing dogs and rats beneath its wheels.

  Harmon smirked at Mira and Dalton. “It’s not even noon yet and Truslow’s come begging for us to call off the dogs.” He laughed at his own joke and moved away from the window.

  The morning had been uncomfortable. There was a half an hour when Mira rocked the baby and Dalton and Kassandra locked the bedroom door. When they came out the eight adults split into two groups. Mr. Luna and his daughters remained in the kitchen to grieve while the other five sat in the small living room in an awkward debriefing. All the while they endured the awful woofs and snarls outside and the constant scratching at the doors, with Lydia bouncing up from time to time worried that her mother had returned and was desperate to enter.

  Lydia leaped up to see the truck and unintentionally bumped Dalton as he took Harmon’s place at the window.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  She had to put a hand on the glass to steady herself against the intense energy radiating off Dalton along with the scent of Kassandra. She looked from the army truck back to Dalton’s face.

  “I’m sorry for this, too,” she said. “I guess this isn’t exactly a safe house. We should’ve moved you all somewhere else.”

  “It’s all right, Lydia.” His voice was soft, gentle, a sharp contrast to his rigid body. He turned to his brother, raised his voice, and said, “Grab the pole, Harmon. It’ll be better if we go out to meet them rather than have them burst in here, bringing who knows how many rats with them.”

  Two soldiers emerged from the truck, firing nano-guns in accurate spurts at the animals around them. The rats that had been scrabbling at the doors changed focus and ran toward the soldiers. They were quickly eliminated. One soldier shouted hurried instructions for Harmon and Dalton to come out, that Truslow wanted to make a deal with them.

  Harmon and Dalton didn’t wait another second. They opened the door and ran out to the vehicle, Harmon disassembling the long w
eapon on the fly so they could leap easily into the truck.

  * * *

  The ride to the capitol is unnerving. We pass several victims of the rats.

  I half expect the capitol grounds to be free of the trouble, but there are scores of rodents scampering around the area and more follow the truck through the gate.

  “Proud of you, brother,” Harmon whispers. “You know he’s going to imprison us again, don’t you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I deserve punishment for what I did this morning. Guilt for lust. It has been months since I’ve felt married. A season in Truslow’s cell will be penance for picturing Lydia’s face when I looked down at Kassandra this morning, her blond hair whorled across the pillow.

  Two soldiers poke our backs and push us up the steps. A third guard fires nonstop at the rats as we go through the doors.

  * * *

  Barrett meant only to give Lydia an encouraging hug, but she turned away, raced upstairs, and left him standing alone in the living room with Mira.

  “You’re never going to dance with her.” Mira said. The metaphor stung though he saw the sympathy in her eyes. He didn’t know how to answer.

  He walked back through the kitchen where the Lunas were sitting like statues, staring off into space. He grabbed his pack. He didn’t belong here, he thought. There were other things he could do during this crisis. He swung the pack onto his back and slinked out the side door. He wasn’t worried about outrunning the rats. In fact, he could probably beat the truck back to the capitol.

  * * *

  I look around Truslow’s office which had belonged to the man I thought was my grandfather for all of my life. Nothing is different.

  Truslow stands behind the desk flanked by two men. Magicians or scientists or weapons specialists. One holds another rod like Harmon’s.

  Truslow speaks with his usual arrogance. “The men in my Krona can produce the same effect.” He nods at the one to his left and the man twists the end of the pole. My head reels from the harmonic discord and I cringe, ball my fists, and grit my teeth. From the halls we hear the scuffling. Animals throw themselves against the door; nails click along the ceiling.

  “If you can stop this curse I’ll let the Reds go.” Truslow’s lips move in sync with his eyebrows which twitch upward in anxious demand.

  I’m tempted to bow and give this irreverent toad the worship he desires, anything to stop the shrill calling.

  “What about your men here?” I say, forcing myself to block the pain. “If they can duplicate what we have done–poison the water, call the rats–can’t they undo what’s done?”

  “Of course they can,” Truslow lies. He nods to the man and he twists back the rod. The sounds overhead abate, but the creatures still rile at the door. “But if you want your people to be released you’ll have to earn it. Stop all the rats. Stop them now. Make them die.”

  I relax my jaw; a tiny smile slips between my lips. “Tomorrow,” I say. “They’ll all be gone tomorrow. And then you’ll have to let us go north.”

  We stare at one another while another furry body belts the door.

  The Executive President looks to the soldiers and says, “So be it. Kill them.”

  I panic for an instant and then realize he means the rats. The soldiers fling open the door and shoot the ones frothing in the hall.

  We’re escorted out, past the gates, then allowed to walk away alone. But we’re not alone. Barrett drops down from the fence and walks between us. He thinks we should go to a different safe house, but I want to go to Lydia’s. I have apologies to make.

  Along the way Harmon uses the rod to keep the wild things at a distance, but all three of us retrieve knives from our belt sacks and from time to time we must kill the larger ones. People come out of buildings and huddle at our heels, using us for safe passage back to homes or cars. We make a few detours to extend our umbrella of protection for various Reds when they beg us to help them get to Lincoln Street or Lofton or farther still to Pemberton or Park.

  We’re almost back to the B streets when I think to ask Bear where Lydia’s mother works. She’s undoubtedly been trapped there since her night shift ended. We make one last detour and find her shuddering inside the lobby of a warehouse.

  “We’ve come to take you home,” Barrett announces. His voice echoes off the concrete walls.

  Mrs. Sroka avoids my eyes and smiles only at Barrett and Harmon. “Thank you so much. I tried to outrun them, but I turned back. I’ve been watching for somebody to come in a cart.”

  “You can thank Dalton. It was his idea to come for you.” Bear swings his arm toward me.

  “Was it? I heard he was the cause of all these rats.” Her voice is full of accusation. I look back at the door, then the floor. I need to say something.

  “I am.” I risk a quick look at her face, expecting to see her revulsion, but she’s measuring me with a steady gaze.

  “Let’s go,” Bear says. He swings the door wide and she follows him out. Harmon holds the rod straight ahead and sets it to broadcast a dissonant hum that repels most of the rodents. Mrs. Sroka is skittish and I offer her my back to ride on but she shakes her head. When some bolder rats chase after us she turns to Bear and he carries her in his arms as if she were an easy counterweight to his backpack. Harmon and I stomp on the smaller rats and stab the ones that threaten to jump on Barrett.

  We make it back to the house with nothing more than a few scratches.

  We have a mighty job tonight. We’ll kill all the rats and pile their bodies up. Tomorrow we’ll march out all the Reds and return to Truslow for the release of the rest.

  * * *

  Lydia, arms filled with more bedding, stopped halfway down the stairs, out of sight, and listened to the late night argument.

  Dalton was pleading with Kassandra in whispers that were harsh and loud. “Why can’t you wait? Your father isn’t well enough to travel.”

  “I … we want to go home. We’ve stayed here too long.”

  “I have a mission.”

  “I know and I’m not stopping you. You … you can do whatever you think you have to do and then come back to the ranch.”

  There was a pause and Lydia imagined Kassandra avoiding Dalton’s eyes.

  “Just give me another day. Everyone will leave Exodia. We’ll meet Ronel. He has a wonderful new place for us all to live.”

  “So you say. I don’t believe it.”

  Lydia let out the breath she’d been holding and took the last five steps down with a little extra weight on her heels so she’d be heard. She entered the room with as much bounce as she could, trying not to appear as if she’d been eavesdropping.

  “Here are two more blankets and pillows for you and Harmon. I don’t know how you want to work this out, but I can sleep with my mom and free up an upstairs bedroom.”

  Dalton’s face reddened and he braced a hand on the door frame. “That’s okay, her father’s on the bed in there and Katie’s on the floor. We’ll all take spots on the floor.” He glanced at Kassandra and she dismissed his statement with a sigh and left the room without a word to either of them.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, sure. I want to wait up for Harmon and Mira anyway. So, uh, I guess the O’Shea siblings will camp out here.”

  “They’re still out killing rats?”

  He nodded. “Bear, too. We each took a quadrant.”

  Lydia didn’t know what else to say. She could’ve set the linens down on a chair, but she stepped closer to Dalton instead.

  “Here,” she said. She pressed them into his arms, felt that same strange flicker of … something … when their hands touched. She turned intending to flee back up the stairs.

  “Wait.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Do you believe in David Ronel’s plan for us?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you ever actually met him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you believe in me?”
/>   Her heart raced with the intimacy of the question. “Of course. You’re the one I’ve sung about all my life.”

  “As Bram O’Shea.”

  “Yes, but a real or assumed name doesn’t really matter. It’s still you.” She paused. “I’d still be me even if I weren’t named Lydia Sroka.”

  They stood still, Lydia not ready to move away, hoping he had more to say.

  * * *

  A memory stirs when Lydia says her full name. Washed out, darkened. I see the building she first took me to, feel beneath my fingertips the carving that was there. So strange to think her mother did it.

  “Your brother–” I say and I’m sure she’s confused from the look on her face. “That carving. It said Dalton Battista is not–” I move my fingers along the door frame as if I am retracing the words.

  She finishes for me, “Not Lucas Sroka.”

  As soon as she says those three words I see them as if they were carved alongside the other words: Not Lucas Sroka. Outclass Krona.

  I say it aloud, dropping my arm, and she smiles and says, “Of course you will outclass Truslow’s Krona.”

  “But they’ve already matched the blood in the water and the summoning of the rats. How can I outdo them?” I’m doubting myself and especially doubting David Ronel.

  “You’ll think of something,” she says.

  Her eyes are as opaque as the celestial sky, interfering with my emotions. I want her to stay, but if I move toward her now I’ll regret it. I watch her head for the stairs and I listen to the creaks and groans of the old house as she ascends. There is something incredibly satisfying when someone believes in you.

  * * *

  For the third time we stand in front of Truslow, outside the gates this time. Reds and even some Blues have dragged the carcasses of the rats and piled them high against the fences. I can’t be the only one annoyed by the flies buzzing around. I look back at Barrett. He’s standing as straight as any soldier. Lydia, too. I smile at her and she smiles back, squinting in the bright sun.