Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  “Harmon.” As soon as I say his name he crushes the lever on the device and a few seconds later the lights in the hallway extinguish. The generators stop their dull hum and only the cloudy light through the window illuminates Jamie’s wicked smile.

  “Is this supposed to scare us?” Jamie nearly howls.

  “It’s a warning,” Harmon says into the gloom. “You won’t be having a wedding because your father will finally let us go. He’ll be grief stricken by your death.”

  The hillside machine, the last of the items Harmon brought from Ronel, and the perfect component to our scheme, does its magic. Besides jamming every other working machine within Exodia, it pulls a darkening drape of clouds across the land. The little bit of remaining light is exchanged for sunless black.

  But I can see.

  * * *

  Lydia restrained her automatic response as she sensed the blackness growing. She forced herself to stay calm as she succumbed to virtual blindness. The trace of light that had filtered through the window a moment ago was gone. She heard the guards stumble back, pushed perhaps by Jamie. There was some kind of commotion and she instinctively raised her arms up, ready. Suddenly it seemed like the air was sucked out of the room followed by a gasp. A thud. Someone’s last breath slid past flaccid vocal cords. She heard the tinny clink of something as it hit the floor. A knife? Was death going to crook its beckoning finger at her next?

  She stretched her hand further to where Barrett had last been and caught him on the sleeve. He quickly latched his hand to hers, put his arm around her shoulder, and thrust her toward the spot where Dalton should’ve been. Empty space. There was movement and a current of air. She caught a whiff of the metallic scent of blood – lots of it. And then a familiar scent. One she liked.

  Suddenly Barrett released her and another set of arms took hold of her. Gently.

  The cursing and swearing from the guards grew louder, but there wasn’t a sound from Jamie. Lydia heard others, capitol workers most likely, stumbling into the hallway, adding their voices to the panicked confusion. She felt a stronger rush of air as somewhere doors were opened. It was still pitch black, but she was calm, pressed tight against a powerful body.

  Dalton’s steady arms guided her out and helped her down the steps. She heard a tapping on the ground; Harmon had taken back the rod. He was leading them away. The breathing at her back could only be Bear, she hoped. She was afraid to whisper anything. She trusted Dalton to get her away safely.

  His arms felt like home. She matched her steps to his as if they were running some crazy three-legged race at midnight. Where had the sun gone?

  * * *

  Jamie’s intention was not indiscernible. Not by me. And I can’t think long on what I’ve done. I can’t feel guilty. It was prophesied, clearly, on the first page of the ledger I ripped out so long ago.

  Yet I’m drowning in this guilt. My sins float ever before me. What I’ve done in darkness will soon be revealed in the light. My palms are damp, my heart beats to a primitive rhythm.

  Harmon’s tapping stops as we pass through the gates. I lift my eyes to the black soupy sky and watch it roil around. The device on the hillside will keep things blackened until morning. Lydia’s grip on me changes as she turns her head to look at me. I see her eyes searching in the inky fog. Without the same gemfry ability she sees no more than if her eyes were closed.

  “Dalton?” she whispers. “Can you see?”

  “I can. Don’t be afraid.” I hold her more tightly and the four of us walk shoulder to shoulder down the center of Exodia. From time to time I lift her over obstacles or puddles and set her gently back on graveled lanes.

  We reach the abandoned birthing clinic and I help her find a place to sit on the top step. I tell her where we are and she’s not surprised at all. It’s barely past mid-afternoon. The sunless day is as quiet as it is dark.

  “Should we sing?” It’s Barrett’s voice that asks and I nod an embarrassed yes for I know I’m the subject of the song. He starts with a deep resonant note and I’m astonished to discover yet another astounding ability of his. His voice carries the subsequent notes to the four corners of the city as if it were a trumpet. Harmon joins in and Lydia’s pure alto highlights every phrase and especially the end of the lines that hold my other name, Bram O’Shea.

  I see a candle, hear another voice. Another light, three, six, ten more candles and dozens more voices singing. I step down and greet every one with instructions.

  “Go to your neighbors,” I say, “and pass the word. The day has finally come. We’ll leave at midnight. Gather what you can carry. Ask your Blue neighbors for their coins, for oil, for food, and meet us at the north bridge, the one marked with a red C.”

  No one questions my instructions even though the highway bridge that was condemned before the Suppression seems a dangerous choice.

  Mira appears in the golden shadows, pulling a wheeled sled laden with things she has prepared for our journey. She’s followed by a man I recognize as the long haired mechanic from Vinn and Carter’s camp, the one who had offered to guide me with his son.

  “I remember you!”

  “And I remember you,” he says. “My name is Malcolm. I’ve brought something from Ronel to help keep the thousands of Reds together on this long trek.” He pats the apparatus on his back and continues, “It’ll create an electronic cloud to follow as you hike during the day. And if you move at night it fluoresces white in the sky. I’ll keep it working for you.”

  I thank him.

  The time has finally come. Every prophecy, every hope, is falling into place.

  The singing abruptly stops.

  “Dalton Battista? Bram O’Shea?” A soldier’s voice booms loud within the darkness. A useless flashlight hanging from his waist catches glints of light from the candle in his hand. “I have a message from the Executive President. He is in great mourning over the death of his only son and commands that you and all the Reds leave Exodia immediately.”

  My lethal act has been discovered though he doesn’t know it was my hand on the blade. How could I have slit the throat of an old friend so effortlessly, so instantly, so coldly? A thousand words sprint to the end of my tongue, but only one crosses the finish line. “Done.”

  * * *

  The bright light of the electronic cloud makes it easy to see the vast numbers of Exodia’s Red citizens who crowd together. Red soldiers join us, too. Their government sleeve patches have been ripped away, but their weapons still hang strapped at their sides next to bulging belt sacks.

  I work my way to the front slowed by offered hugs, elbow bumps, and words of praise. Broken phones crunch under my feet, thrown to the ground as symbols that we’re severing all ties with Exodia. Those who had turned against me this past year are my biggest fans tonight. The noise is deafening to me as they cheer and holler. I pick out Lydia’s clear voice singing that old song again. The crowd hushes and slowly, like a well-practiced chorus, they join her. Softly at first. Expectantly.

  I will sing of Ronel, uncommon,

  The warrior of milchamah.

  He is triumphant, hero, law,

  Yea, by the power of zerowah.

  The nation will hear and tremble,

  Anguished people of Exodia assemble.

  He devises a way to release us.

  His plan will surely please us,

  At the birth of Bram O’Shea. Bram O’Shea.

  * * *

  We reach the abandoned interstate by morning and tramp down wide lanes to an expanse that is impossible to cross. The crater left by a disaster mid-century turned this whole area into a man-made gorge with drops over a thousand feet deep. I know this from my studies, but most of the Reds, maybe all of them, know nothing about the catastrophe that separated this region. People will think I’ve lost my mind to lead them to a place no one has ever crossed, a place they’ll think is a trap.

  I’ve been holding Lydia’s hand through the long hours that we’ve been traveling here. Hours
that seem like seconds. I’m afraid if I let go of her I’ll never get to touch her again. But I have to drop her hand to climb up on a broken slab. There are giant concrete columns holding up the longest, highest bridge ever built. It spans the chasm. But they’re the weakest pillars ever built. Low bids, corruption, government side deals. It was condemned before it opened, a month before the Suppression of 2071. No one dares to drive or even walk the ramp that leads up to the wide overpass.

  Malcolm comes up to me. He offers the machine on his back as a way to amplify my voice. My first three words are projected up and out just like the white cloud that gives us enough light to see our way. “Listen to me!” The last syllable echoes once. I repeat myself twice more and expect the Reds to settle down, but the deep timbre of angry voices among them stirs them up.

  “You can’t be serious. We’re not going over that bridge.”

  “No way.”

  “That thing’s not safe.”

  I need to explain to them that we’ll never be free of Truslow unless we follow Ronel’s strategy. My throat constricts, a gust of wind comes up from the cavity and swallows my response.

  Another man speaks up, fuming, “Yeah, why are we here? We should’ve gone east. Toward the ocean!”

  “Or northwest. Nothing to cross–nothing to slow us down! Who will follow me northwest?”

  I’m shocked to see the last one who yells is Korzon. Harmon pushes through the crowd and stands beside me. He holds the rod out straight above the heads of those nearest. They fear it and shrink back.

  I clear my throat and decisively wrench against my stubborn tongue. “Listen to me,” I begin again. “Trust me. Trust Ronel.” Those are all the words I get out before screams cut me off. I look to the back of the throng and see a man on horseback forcing his way through the people, trampling a path until he reaches me. He’s a Blue soldier, one I trained against as a youth. His stun gun is held in his right hand, reins in his left. His horse stomps in place. I speak first, “What do you want?”

  “The Executive President, in his grief, declared that you could leave. He has rescinded his permission. He’ll no longer allow you to leave. His army, marching and mounted, will make you all turn back. No blood will be shed if you turn south now.” His horse snorts as if in disagreement. “So be this executive order. You’ve been forewarned.” He backs the horse away, turns and gallops back through the path he’d made.

  “We haven’t any time to argue,” Harmon yells. He hands the rod to me and makes a show of helping Mira pull her sled up the ramp, Barrett on their heels. Lydia steps onto the slab with me, careful to avoid a rusty metal bar that protrudes from the disintegrating concrete. I hold the rod high until it touches a faded red letter on the column, the only letter still visible from the word condemned.

  I speak without the amplifier and lift my voice, “Listen. You’re under the protection of Harmon’s rod. This is David Ronel’s plan. Please, I urge you to follow my brother over the bridge!”

  There’s no argument this time. The threat of an army on our tails spurs them all to the same decision. Korzon is next to move. He hurries to catch up with Barrett. The rest move just as quickly.

  Chapter 15 Out of Exodia

  At the birth of Bram O’Shea.

  Heart Bosom Breath Faith

  SIX HUNDRED SOLAR tanks, four dozen soldiers on horseback, and two hundred troops pursued the Reds as soon as Ronel’s hillside machine lifted the night and Truslow could give the command. The Reds had a lengthy head start.

  The riders outdistanced the tanks and stole closer to the back edge of the crowds. They formed a line off to the side to let those who wished to retreat peacefully do so.

  But none did; the Reds scurried up the bridge while soldiers in bright blue coats watched, some hoping for the bridge to collapse, some dreading an order to follow. But the colonel in charge was ambivalent about chasing hundreds of people across a bridge that could give way unexpectedly.

  “Sir?”

  The colonel set his binoculars in his lap. He lifted a hand to direct his driver toward the base of the structure.

  * * *

  Lydia spotted the command vehicle weaving through the troops and pointed it out to Dalton.

  “I know,” he said. “I heard it coming.”

  “What should we do? There are still hundreds who have to cross.” She looked across the bridge, alarmed to see thousands of people spread across the width and breadth of the unsteady construction that should have been torn down a quarter of a century earlier. “Dalton?”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “And don’t call me that anymore.” He lowered the staff. He took a firm grip on the rod, hardened his mouth in utter concentration. His eyes were focused the way a lion sights for prey. “From now on I’m going by my real name.” He pushed the bottom end of the metal rod into the dirt. “Call me Bram.”

  Lydia smiled. “It’s about time.”

  * * *

  I move so my body hides what I’m doing to the rod and smile back at Lydia. My heart pounds, my chest aches.

  “Bram,” she says. “Are you going to leave the rod behind?”

  “Sort of.” I look over my shoulder at the advancing army and quickly finish what I have to do. I take the upper portion of the rod between my thumb and forefinger, hold my breath, and flick the tiny lever. The bottom begins to burrow into the soft dirt and the whole thing follows like a snake down a hole.

  I grab Lydia’s hand and we run into the final throng of people who are starting across the bridge.

  “Hurry! Everyone hurry! The bridge is going to blow in fifteen minutes.”

  They’re startled at my words and a few vacillate, but the sight of the army mushrooming closer is enough to get even the oldest ones trotting.

  “What if they follow?” Lydia asks. “What if we make it across and they see that the bridge is safe enough? We can’t outrun them then.”

  I want to tell her to have faith. The first time I saw her I thought that I’d follow her anywhere and now, here she is, following me. Trusting me.

  Trusting Bram O’Shea.

  A short beam rusting.

  Abate storming rush.

  I sense a throbbing in my veins and energy, energy like the wind that gathers before a storm. Lydia pulls at my hand and I realize I haven’t answered, that we are stopped, and all the rest are much further on. I feel the hairs on my arms standing on end.

  “Bram?”

  I look back at the army. The commander’s vehicle is parked where I released the rod. The tanks and men and horses are in a formation clearly ready to funnel themselves onto the bridge. But they’re waiting.

  “A short beam rusting,” I say.

  “What? You were in a trance, Bram. What’s wrong?”

  She hasn’t let go of my hand. I sense a rush of emotion from her that overwhelms me. I lift her hand gently and bring it to my lips. She’s scared. I haven’t answered any of her questions. She looks intently at me and I won’t break our gaze. I kiss her hand.

  “Bram … I trust you.”

  Trusting Bram O’Shea.

  The second anagram I breathe onto her hand like another kiss, “Abate storming rush.”

  She cocks her head but still doesn’t look away from me.

  A cheer from the far side breaks the spell.

  “They’ve all made it to the other side,” she says.

  We’re standing more than halfway across, the only two people left on the bridge. I focus on the command vehicle and use my special gift to pick out the leader’s voice. “Perfect,” I say to Lydia and kiss her hand again. “They’re coming.”

  We jog the final distance and merge into the milling horde. Malcolm’s electronic cloud is visible hovering over their heads. I wonder if that made the army hesitate.

  “Here they come,” someone shouts.

  “It’s going to blow,” warns one of the last ones to cross. “That rod he used–it’s a bomb.”

  Word spreads through the multitude and
most stop running away and turn their eyes back to the bridge to see what will happen. A few people linger too close to the edge.

  “Get back!” There are beams and girders, shafts and stringers, hangers and hinges that will fly apart when the rod explodes. The substructure may fall toward us when the main part falls a thousand feet. I keep pushing people back, but no one except Lydia seems to understand the danger.

  Harmon and Barrett appear at our sides and pull us away toward someone’s cart. We climb up and get a better view of my people, but the bridge is all I focus on. I can’t see the bottom of the gorge.

  There are tanks in all eight lanes now, soldiers and horses march behind them, the command vehicle is at the back of the parade, flanked by a dozen foot soldiers.

  “Look.” Barrett smacks my arm and directs my attention to the fields leading up to the other side, right behind the Blue army. A pride of lions sneaks along the edge of the tall grasses. Nine lions. My breath catches. One soldier could easily decimate the pride if he looked to his rear.

  “Symbolic,” Harmon says. “It’s as if the beasts are sealing their fate.” He turns to me. “You set all ten?”

  I nod.

  “Any second then.”

  The lead tanks reach the center of the bridge and keep on coming slowly.

  “They’ve passed the center,” Lydia says. “They’re almost to where we stopped.” She looks at me. “Where that rusted beam lay across the road.” A short beam rusting.

  I hear the throaty rumble before the roar and I’m sure Barrett does, too. Lydia jumps as the unmistakable sound of an attacking lion reaches her ears. The last row of soldiers should respond with fire power, but they panic. We hear shouts instead of gunshots. The commander’s vehicle lurches forward, runs into horses. Suddenly there is a storming rush of animals and men.

  Beneath the ground a tremor adds a deeper chord to the frightening sounds and the bridge breaks away from the land. The lions pounce.