by Brett Riley
I hold thousands of lives in my hands now. Enough to make ghosts for a hundred boneyards. How far can a man carry that much failure? And where on God’s Earth could he set it down and rest?
His bleary eyes stung.
McClure put the book on the end table. She sat up, boots clumping the floor, and nodded at Troy, who nodded back. Troy took the chair nearest the couch and removed his hat, beating its dust onto his rug. What’s doin over yonder? he asked.
McClure scratched Bandit’s head. Long lines of Troublers chained together on the streets, she said. One guard for every ten or twelve prisoners. A third of the troops mounted. Most of em armed, though I only saw the mounted ones packin guns. Lotta knives, clubs, and so forth. A few swords.
Huh.
Yeah. Why so few guns?
Can’t know for sure, but generally speakin, when you know people can’t trust you, then you don’t tend to trust them either. Or maybe Rook figured the chains and the starvation and walkin unarmed with your family would keep the prisoners in line, and not havin guns or horses would keep the guards from gettin soft-hearted. Just a guess.
Troy sat for a while, sipping water and calculating. The girl and her dog waited, ever patient.
Unless we can harness a load of our folks and all of Stransky’s Troublers, or some of the guards spontaneously combust, our chances of savin this city are slim. My bunch could probably shoot our own way out. Any operation this big will have weak points. But we can’t just leave everybody else to die.
How fucked are we? McClure asked.
Very. So they’re just droppin folks in the street, like Ernie said?
Yep. Minimum rations, doled out every six or eight hours.
Good Lord. The sun will kill a passel before the flood gets a chance.
I heard a couple guards talkin about that near the privies.
Troy leaned forward. Tell me. Word for word.
McClure closed her eyes. Well, one of em said, I almost feel sorry for these folks. It’s a rough way to go. And the second one said, They’re Troublers. They deserve it. Then the first guy said, Yeah, but some of em’s kids. But the other one laughed. If you came across a litter of wolf pups, would you want them to grow up? These kids, they’re liable to shoot you one day. I really wish I was on the wall crew. Then we’d see em put to good use before they die. After that, they left.
Anything else?
One of em had a dingus as long as my forearm. Looked like a dead king snake.
Willa.
Only noteworthy thing about em.
Troy had just been thinking of mass death. These guards made killing children sound as upsetting as taking out garbage.
Did you set that meetin with Stransky? he asked, shaking his head.
The sister said to come tomorrow night. I’d go after dark if I was you.
Troy walked to the nearest window and pulled back the curtain. Another humid night had settled over the city. Lightning bugs zipped over the street like shooting stars. Bats flapped in and out of the streetlamps’ glow. Somewhere out there, the builders drew closer, bearing their tools and arms and Crusade flags. Some might already be here. Explosives were being confiscated from New Orleans’s armories. Beyond that, he knew very little to compare with whatever Stransky would tell him. I reckon I gotta trust her. She’s been straighter with me than the envoys. And if she’s leadin me astray, Lord, please know I’m doin my best.
McClure stood, Bandit at heel, and joined Troy at the window. So. How do we get outta this?
Troy clapped her on the shoulder. You ever wanted to be a Troubler?
She snorted. Hell. Why not?
Twenty hours later, as Troy traveled on foot, the sun hung bright and bloody on the cloudless western horizon. Beneath the usual smells of cookfires drifted the sour scents of the march, unwashed flesh and sweat and illness. The walkers moved from causeway to city streets to bridge, their tread like some great beast’s heartbeat. A low buzzing from south of the river—nonstop movement and conversations, the hum of populace, a microcosmic version of what the city must have sounded like in the time before. It felt both familiar and disquieting, as if Troy had stepped through a hole in his own life and fallen into his city’s past.
Or its future. If there was ever a time when Christians sent so many into bondage and death, our historians didn’t write about it. The south-side streets will probably fill in another day or two. Then we’ll be trippin over prisoners every time we move.
Troy saluted patrolling guards and stopped to chat with some workers on their way home. To make sure he was noticed, he paused for an hour at the river, alone on his bench. Citizens trudged past and greeted him. Near dusk, he eased through the shadows, street by street, toward the Church of the Sisters of Mercy and Grace. When he came upon the unbroken south-moving line of Troublers and guards, he pulled his hat low, turned up his collar, and stepped over the chains between two prisoners. No one hailed him. These new guards would not know his face, even if they could see it in the gloom. He hoped he would have the same luck getting back. Likely the guards would be too focused on their charges to worry much about a citizen.
Camp Street was mostly deserted, as usual. The few people who lived there kept strict hours so they could attend Mass. I bet Royster’s not gonna be happy with the size of our Catholic population. Maybe that’s another reason they picked New Orleans—the chance to drown so many Papists at once. Just one more bit of wrong in a great big pile of awful.
He slipped inside the church. Stransky waited on the front pew, staring into the votives’ light. She did not turn to greet him, even when the floorboards creaked. Her eyes were closed, as if in prayer. Troy crossed in front of her and took a seat to her right. She had bathed since he saw her last. The oil had been washed from her freshly combed hair, which hung straight down to her shoulders. She had scrubbed the dirt and grime from her face and arms. In her clean deerskin clothes, Stransky almost looked like a citizen.
She kept still for perhaps two minutes. Then she turned to him. Welcome back, partner, she said.
I can’t believe you got the gall to pray, after all you done.
Stransky laughed and slapped her knee. Then she stood and placed her hands in the small of her back, arching her spine. It crackled; she grunted. Not that it’s any of your goddam business, but I pray. I got my own religion, taught to me by my daddy and my granddaddy before him, until your buddy Ernie Tetweiller shot em down in the streets like dogs.
Troublers don’t care nothin for God.
Stransky looked as if she had been sprayed by a skunk. We don’t care nothin for the Crusade. There’s a big difference, in case you hadn’t noticed.
Troy shook his head. It wasn’t always like this.
She grinned. Wasn’t it?
She sat and faced him, crossing her legs beneath her as before. The deerskin hung from her body. Even though her face seemed fuller than it had in the tower, she still looked like a famine victim. Perhaps she was. Troy had spent much of his life guarding Crusade supplies from Troubler theft, damning the guerillas every time one of them stole food or water or weapons. Had their actions been just, Troy’s wrong? How could starving someone serve God?
Still, the woman had murdered.
Don’t talk to me about my own church, he said.
We got a Bible at our headquarters. It’s been passed down from ancient times, dog-eared and flimsy, disintegratin every day. It’s the real thing, not that cherry-picked piece of shit Strickland gave y’all. You should read it sometime. It might open your eyes.
I told you. I ain’t gonna debate my religion with a heretic.
You brought it up.
Troy took a deep breath. Don’t let her get to you. He exhaled. We got bigger problems. South of the river’s stuffed with prisoners and guards, and they’re bringin in the wall already built. I asked Royster about it. He clammed up.<
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Uh-huh. What do you plan to do about it?
Troy hated what he was about to say. Stransky watched him, expressionless. She’s lovin this. He sighed. We’ve been recruitin. Hidin as much explosives and ammo as we can. But we’re still gonna be outnumbered. The outlanders will have enough ordnance to blow those levees five times over.
She studied her nails as if they were discussing how best to mend a cuticle. And? she said.
And we need to get you back to your people. We need supplies. Combustibles, weapons, food stores, manpower.
Stransky smiled. Live together or die alone, huh?
Somethin like that.
They sat for a bit, watching the candles. When the sanctuary looked like this—no lamps, only the votives’ finicky light—it always seemed solemn and spooky, like a graveyard by moonlight. Yet the combination of comfort and fear could be useful. Safety and ease felt good, but fright kept your guard up. Soon, if they failed, the sisters’ steeple would thrust from murky water like a grasping hand.
She’s sweet on you, Stransky said.
Troy started. Huh? Who?
Stransky grinned. Sarah. I mean, the first time I said somethin, I was just ribbin you, but it’s true. She’s got enough nun in her to hide it, but it’s there. If you pushed her just a bit, I bet you could find out what’s under that habit.
Troy shoved Stransky onto her back and jammed his bent knee between her breasts, one hand on her throat, the other cocking a pistol, pressing the barrel against her forehead. You ever speak of her like that again, he said through clenched teeth, and I’ll blow your brains out.
Stransky cackled and flicked her tongue. Troy pressed the barrel harder, as if he meant to punch it through her skull. His grip on her throat tightened. Her face reddened. Bits of spittle flew from her lips. Yet still she laughed.
Then a voice broke through his anger. Gabriel Troy. You know I won’t have violence here.
Sister Sarah stood near the back door, blending into the shadows.
Stransky’s laughter had weakened. Saliva flecked her lips.
If I squeeze a little more, she’ll die laughin.
Instead, he uncocked his gun and holstered it. The barrel left a red O in Stransky’s skin. He let go of her neck and got off her.
She sat up, coughing and rubbing her throat, still grinning. Her eyes sparkled with glee and madness. Now I trust you’ll fight to your dyin breath, she croaked, nodding at Sister Sarah. You got somethin precious to lose.
I always did, he said. All my people are precious to me.
She cackled again and scooted away. Some more than others.
I want to put her down like the rabid animal she is. But if I do, Sarah will never let me cross this threshold again. And I’d be handin New Orleans to Royster.
Sister Sarah began to come forward, but Stransky held up her hand. Hang on, Sister. Me and Gabe got a little more jawin to do. Better if you don’t hear. That way, if anybody ever asks, you ain’t gotta lie.
Behave yourselves, Sister Sarah said. Both of you.
She backed out of the room, glaring at them, a mother leaving her petulant children alone in a room full of glassware.
Troy leaned against the pew. The votives flickered and wavered. I wish I could ask Sarah to light one for me. Any shelter in a hurricane, right? But I’ve burdened her too much already.
Stransky edged close to him. Now that we know where we stand, I got a condition.
You ain’t in no position to bargain.
Neither are you. Right now, we got a common enemy. It don’t matter if we don’t like each other much. Until that enemy’s gone, I need your solemn promise before God, here in this house of worship, that you won’t betray me and mine. That you won’t sell us out to those outlander fucks. Can you do that?
Troy examined his hands. They had done so much violence, first in his days as a deputy and then during his tour as lord of order. He had killed and tortured. He had shot men, women, children barely big enough to hold a gun. Just now he had nearly strangled a woman with one hand and shot her with the other. And he had done it all because he believed it was right, commensurate with the Crusade’s teachings and the will of the one true God. Now he could no longer reconcile the Crusade’s orders with his own heart. Perhaps in disobeying his church, he was damning himself. Or maybe he had been damned for years, following Rook and his ilk straight to hell. Troy did not know how you could try so hard to do right and still lose your soul, but that contradiction now seemed truer than any of the easy certainties he had always known. Against such a backdrop, why not promise Stransky whatever she needed to hear? What more harm could he do? Besides, no one knew what tomorrow would bring. Perhaps he would get to keep his word.
He looked her in the eye. You got my word before God that I won’t turn on you or yours, at least not till the city’s safe.
Stransky smiled again. I reckon that’ll do. We can sort each other out later, if it comes to that. And hell, Gabe. We might even be real friends by then. She stood without another word and walked to the door. When she opened it, Sister Sarah was on the other side, her hands clasped, as patient and immobile as a statue. He’s all yours, Sister. I think this went pretty good, don’t you?
Stransky disappeared into the sanctuary’s recesses, slapping Sister Sarah on the buttocks as she passed. Sister Sarah shrieked. She scowled as she entered and closed the door behind her. As she strode to Troy, her habit swished against her legs as a horse’s tail shoos away flies. Taking a seat beside him, she winced and rubbed the back of her neck. The dark bags under her eyes seemed more pronounced. Stransky’s doin? Or Royster’s? Or mine? Troy took her hand. It was almost as rough and calloused as his, a fragile link in a world fraught with peril and pain. Too fragile. He was stained with Troubler blood. She believed she had married Christ Himself. Who could compete with such a suitor? Sorrow clenched Troy in its fist. Even when we stand at the edge of eternity, watchin the days march past any known measurement of time or distance, I could never walk with her. All I can do is try to save her life here and now.
She squeezed his hand. You look tireder than I feel. When was the last time you slept through the night?
I ain’t got time these days. Is Stransky drivin you batty?
She’s a challenge. It’s like she’s addicted to heresy. If she weren’t such a religious fanatic, I’d call her an atheist.
Troy frowned. She just shined me on about her faith, but I ain’t never met a Troubler with any religion, much less fanaticism.
Sarah looked at him as if he might be stupid or a little deranged. You ought to know better than that. Some Troublers believe in nothin but food and guns, but most of em are Protestants. Around here, anyway.
The Crusade supplanted all the Protestant sects after the Purge.
No. They only drove the loyal believers underground. The Troublers practice a kind of hybrid religion. Immersion baptism, individual prayer by a congregant like the old Baptists used, the pew-jumpin ecstasy of the Assembly and the Pentecostal, the Amen corners and call-and-response you’d see in black churches.
What’s a black church?
In the ancients’ time, folks with white skin, like you, went to different churches than dark-skinned folks like Ford. Or me.
Troy blinked. Why?
Different traditions, different dogmas, sometimes plain old hatred.
I never knew that.
There’s a lot the Crusader Bible and the histories leave out. Even the forbidden ones.
How do you know all this, and why didn’t you ever tell me?
I know because I’ve talked with the Troublers and read their books. Plus, us Catholics got our own histories, not all of em written down. As for why I didn’t tell you? Because you would have used it against em. Same reason I don’t tell them what you say when we talk. I won’t help y’all kill each other.
Troy removed his hat and scratched his head. We do a good enough job without any help.
Yeah. They’ve always seen you lords as cold-blooded killers and tyrants.
You don’t believe that, I hope.
I believe every religion in history has committed atrocities in the name of God. Includin mine. Maybe, when all this is over, I’ll tell you about the Inquisition.
But somebody’s gotta be right, don’t they?
I hope to God. Otherwise, nobody’ll make it outta this world alive.
They sat in silence for a while. Sister Sarah’s hand grew damp in his own, but neither let go. There’s a whole life I’ll never see on the other side of moments like this. Skin on skin. Body heat. Love.
Finally, she pulled her hand away. Your ache’s like a scent. I feel it too.
Troy’s heart hammered. Sarah, do you ever wonder—
If I was somethin other than what I am, you might not love me at all.
Do you love me back? Can you tell me that much at least?
She closed her eyes. Of course I love you. Why do you think I always run off so soon? I can’t afford to be tempted. Too many people depend on me.
He nodded and passed a hand over his face, feeling himself tremble. They had never spoken of their feelings aloud until now. Hearing they were doomed pained him more than he would have believed. A funereal wail emanated from the deepest parts of himself. Yet no matter what happened, he would face it knowing someone loved him, not as a brother-in-arms or as a Christian, but as a man. And how could love ever be wrong?
He cleared his throat and willed his runaway pulse to slow. I reckon Stransky’s told you what the Crusade’s plannin.
