by Brett Riley
Yes, but she says a lot. I don’t know what to believe.
As far as we can tell, she’s shootin straight. They’re dumpin Troublers on the streets. The wall’s comin, and they’re confiscatin our explosives.
Sister Sarah’s mouth pressed into a bloodless line. She looked away and shuddered. How long will it take to build this wall?
It’d take months, maybe years, if they were startin from scratch, but it’s just gonna be a matter of placin the sections and securin em together. I figure we’ve got a few weeks at most.
Sarah looked to the votives and crossed herself. Then I gotta get my people out of town.
Or you could join up with us.
Tears glistened on her cheeks. There’s more of us here than in most places, but that ain’t sayin much. Some of us might wanna stay, but if even one goes, I have to shepherd. It’s my callin.
I know, he said.
Troy put his arm around her. They sat in the dark and the heat for another twenty minutes, listening to each other breathe, feeling each other’s touch through three layers of cloth, which, together, made only one of the many barriers separating them.
11
Lisander Royster watched the flickering streetlamps down on Decatur and thought about change.
Some Troubler in Miami has mucked about with forbidden technology advanced enough to light streets and houses. At least these provincials, doomed though they are, scurry about in the dark, as is proper.
Bits of tech had popped up in recent years. Someone in New York had gotten an old underground train running and caused a riot. The local lord of order had been forced to cleanse the entire area, Troubler and Crusader alike, to keep it quiet. A now-dead Troubler in Detroit had managed to start three automobiles, which meant they had also managed to find a more or less intact chassis, locate and refine crude oil, make those alien rubber wheels, and a hundred other impossibilities. Those rebels had been found and crushed, the technology destroyed, but if one Troubler could make something work, another might take up their mantle. Matthew Rook himself had come to Royster and explained it all—how the world Jonas Strickland created for the faithful was fading, how the Troublers grew stronger even as the Crusaders’ wills waned every year. The only way to stem the blasphemous tide would be the old way—a Purge that would destroy even the double agents, who did much worse damage than the herds of Troublers roaming the world’s ruins.
Though New Orleans seemed like a true Crusade stronghold, it was, in fact, a breeding ground for sin and insurrectionists. Rook had proven it by showing Royster the journals of Jonas Strickland. Rook had brought Royster into his study and opened Strickland’s election-year journal, directing Royster’s attention to one passage.
Of all the areas in this country that must feel the strong right hand of God, New Orleans is perhaps the worst. The city is a wretched cesspool of sin—prostitution, homosexuality, voodoo, fornication and adultery, public nudity and micturition, murder, rape, graft. Its officials are liars, its people decadent, even worse than those in Las Vegas. The hurricanes failed to wipe New Orleans from the face of the earth, but when I am President, that city will be a priority. She will learn to fear God, or she will burn.
As in other cities, much of New Orleans had burned when Jonas Strickland activated the Godwave. Metal wagons called trolleys crushed panicked pedestrians. Flying machines fell from the sky and exploded, destroying buildings and foliage and people. Had it not been for a resourceful citizenry and some unfortunately timed rainstorms, the whole town might have turned to ash. But New Orleans had survived, and so the armies of Jonas Strickland had descended on her like God’s own wrath, slaughtering heathens, driving those who escaped into the dank and pestilential swamps. As generations passed, the rubble had been cleared away, the wreckage hauled to designated sites and buried or burned or melted down in the forges, most of the ruined areas rebuilt. So it was across the world. Travel to any major city and you might not know any disaster had befallen, thanks to the hard work of Crusaders and the labor of captured Troublers, those terrorists who never seemed to agree on what they wanted. They might set a fire and burn down whole neighborhoods. But let the Crusade start any improvement project—which, of course, always had to begin with destruction of some kind, a fire or a building demolition—and the Troublers would drive off the workers. They want whatever seems diametrically opposed to the Crusade. They are that simple and that tenacious. Watching them drown will be like standing at the pearly gates as the wicked are cast into the lake of fire. Their screams will be music, their deaths a balm for this world’s soul. And if Lord Troy keeps asking the wrong questions and making demands, Mister Clemens will be happy to slip a knife between his ribs ahead of schedule.
From below came the sound of many boots on the stairs. So Clemens had found everyone. Royster crossed quickly to Troy’s desk—his desk now—and sat. He folded his hands and smiled. And when the door opened and Clemens ushered in Santonio Ford, LaShanda Long, and Gordon Boudreaux, Royster clapped his hands together like a child who has been given a rare treat.
Boudreaux and Ford flanked LaShanda Long. Benn brought in a steaming kettle of tea and poured it into chipped cups and handed them out. Boudreaux sipped, squinting against the steam.
Royster looked them over. You three are the youngest of Lord Troy’s lieutenants.
As the senior official present, Ford would do the talking, so Boudreaux looked to him. Yes, sir, the hunter said.
Good, good. Tell me, young men and lady. Are you loyal to the Bright Crusade or to your lord of order?
Boudreaux clenched his jaw. Here it comes.
But if the question bothered Ford, he gave no sign. Instead, he took what struck Boudreaux as the most practical course—feigned ignorance. I don’t get your meanin, sir. Is there a difference?
In theory, there shouldn’t be, but for the moment, let us consider the possibility. What would you do if Gabriel Troy tried to hinder the Crusade’s goals and Matthew Rook’s written orders?
Sweet Father. He expects us to cast Gabe out just like that, after all these years.
Can’t imagine that, Ford said, his face expressionless. The Crusade’s his whole life.
Of course. I am simply asking if you would side with the Crusade against all enemies, regardless of who they might be.
Ford never blinked. We do what’s right around here. Always have. Always will.
Royster smiled, put one hand over his heart, bowed his head a moment. Splendid. That will be all for now. We shall call on you again, should the need arise. He stood up and stuck out his hand.
Ford shook it, looking Royster in the eye. Anytime.
Benn and Clemens herded them toward the door.
Don’t look back, Boudreaux thought. Don’t give him a reason to wonder about you too.
The deputy envoys escorted them outside the Temple and shut the doors without so much as a good evening. Boudreaux opened his mouth, but Long put her hand on his shoulder and cut her eyes toward the guards, and he shut it again.
After dark, under an overcast sky as black as coal, Ford met Troy on the bench by the river.
I told Sister Sarah what Royster’s plannin, Troy said as Ford sat. She wants to get her people out.
Ford scratched his head. If all the Catholics leave, Royster will know somebody talked. He might figure it was you.
I reckon he might.
We can’t do this without you. I don’t know if we can do it at all.
You can. If a Troubler had shot me in the back last month, you or Jack would be in charge anyway. What happened at your meetin?
Royster asked what we’d do if you turned traitor. If I’d have answered wrong, there’d be three bodies in the river right now. Theirs or ours.
Troy turned to the water. Ford let him ponder for a while. The Crusade lied to us, the hunter thought. By omission and by outright deception. Now we�
�re lyin to help people, but also to stay alive. Sin for sin, we’re matchin each other.
So, Troy said. He thinks me, Jack, and Ernie are too far gone to reach.
I ain’t much of an expert on what Royster thinks. But that seems about right.
And y’all said what?
That we’d do our duty.
Good. That should keep y’all outta the towers. If you hear anything we can use, stop by my house for dinner or invite me out for some night fishin. In the meantime, we better get back.
He patted Ford on the shoulder, stood, and slipped away into the darkness.
Ford bowed his head. Father God, keep us strong and on Your path. Give each of us the wisdom to know what’s right and the strength to act on it.
When he left, he took a different route, just in case.
12
The Westbank Expressway’s pavement crumbled under Royster’s horse’s hooves. Troublers knotted the roads and sidewalks. Chained together at the ankles, they sat or walked in sunburnt, mosquito-stung misery, dragged along by those in front of them, kicked by those behind. At night, they slept shoulder to shoulder and in great stinking piles. Soon their decamping in the city proper would begin. The great wall grew daily, the sections thirty-five feet high by thirty feet long by ten feet deep, wood reinforced with iron, snaking around the city as crews worked both ends. When head finally met tail and every Troubler had been herded inside, Royster’s task would be complete, and he could return to Washington.
Clemens trotted up on a jet-black mare with rippling muscles, its sheen so dark it looked wet. The deputy reined in beside Royster and fanned himself with his hat, wiping his sweating forehead on his shirtsleeve. He nodded at the masses stomping and clanking away on the roads.
It’s like the Sermon on the Mount, he said. Nothing but sinners as far as the eye can see.
Royster smiled. It’s quite a sight.
So what’s next?
The envoy grunted. What next, indeed? On the surface, everything proceeds apace. Even if Gabriel Troy and his lieutenants prove false, we have the guns and the numbers. Our faithful are planting the charges that will flood this city. Lynn Stransky remains in exile. The common people are sheep. So far, only Troy has questioned us. Soon I will test him further. Jack Hobbes and Ernest Tetweiller as well.
He turned to Clemens. We should inform Lord Troy and his colleagues that we need no assistance from them. All local officials are to remain with their populace, quelling fears and eliminating dissent as the prisoners begin to settle north of the river.
What if they balk?
Frankly, I expect them to. If I am right, we’ll lock them in the towers. I doubt any masked bandits will liberate them.
Clemens grinned, showing uneven white teeth. I’ll hunt them down myself, if it comes to that. He saluted and turned his horse, clopping back the way he had come.
Royster frowned. Clemens had always been useful, but something about this mission had made him reckless and prideful. And Mister Rook had been clear: Only the most faithful, pure, loyal Crusaders were to survive the coming Purge. Clemens seemed too wild a card to keep in play for long.
Benn would put a bullet in his head, should it become necessary. Like Lisander Royster himself, Benn had always followed orders. His soul was safe.
13
Clemens found Troy with Tetweiller and Hobbes on Dauphine Street, where a short, bald man appeared to be suffering a panic attack. Troy and Hobbes held his arms while Tetweiller spoke to him. Clemens dismounted and approached.
I just don’t think I can take much more, fellas, the diminutive citizen said. All that clankin, day and night. All these bad seeds movin in. I feel like I’m bein punished when I ain’t did nothin wrong.
Well, you can’t go around yellin your fool head off, Tetweiller said. Everybody’s on edge as it is. Now. If we turn you loose, you gonna keep calm?
The little man swallowed hard and nodded. Troy and Hobbes let go and stepped back. They looked ready to tackle him at the first sign of trouble.
Clemens cleared his throat. What’s happening here?
Troy glanced at Clemens. Nothin much. Billy’s just got a case of the nerves. He’s okay.
The lord of order doesn’t much like me, Clemens thought. And I don’t like any of these yokels. He better be okay. Only Troublers incite panic.
Billy’s eyes widened. Now wait a minute—
Troy shoved Billy away. You get along home.
Billy walked off, glancing back at Clemens, nearly plowing into a rusty street sign. Troy watched him go until he rounded the corner. Then he turned to Clemens. When we need your help with our people, we’ll ask. Until that day, stay away from em, or you and me’s gonna have a problem.
Clemens’s eye twitched. I’d love to headbutt him right in the nose and blow that hardcase expression right off his face. But orders were to speak, not act, and Clemens had no intention of crossing Royster. He stepped back. Tetweiller and Hobbes relaxed. Mister Royster’s right. Those two believe in Troy, not the Crusade. If I’d made a move, they would have burned me down.
I was just trying to help drive home your point, he said. Speaking of which, I’ve got one of my own. Straight from Mister Royster.
Troy held Clemens’s gaze. Clemens kept his hands clear of his gun belt. That old fart Tetweiller’s staring a hole in me. As if such a dried-up husk could stand against one of Matthew Rook’s chosen. And look how calm Hobbes is. He might as well be sitting in church or watching the grass grow. Better be careful with him.
Let’s hear it, Troy said.
You’ve got far too much on your plate these days, what with your populace’s penchant for coming down with—what did you call it?—a case of the nerves. Mr. Royster says to stay out of the areas where the Troublers are being kept. See to your own people.
The old man spat. So Royster’s tellin us where we can and can’t ride in our own city.
Ernie, Troy said.
Clemens scowled. Yes, he is. He outranks us all. If he orders you to hop on one leg right into the lake, you should do it. Assuming you’re loyal.
The old man stepped forward and opened his mouth to say something, but Troy put a hand on his chest. Hobbes took Tetweiller by the arm. None of them had taken their eyes off Clemens.
Mister Royster’s right, Troy said. We got plenty to do. Don’t we, fellas?
Hobbes nodded, unblinking and cold. Tetweiller did not acknowledge that anyone had spoken.
We’d be well served to see them in chains, squatting on the streets and urinating in the gutters like the Troublers they are. No telling how deeply their sin has wormed into the general population.
At least one of them knew where Lynn Stransky was hiding. Clemens would have bet his life on it.
Well, if we all understand each other, he said, I’ll leave you to your duties. Gentlemen. The last word dripped with sarcasm.
No one replied. They might have been statues.
I’m going to enjoy blowing Tetweiller’s brains out, if he has any. With Hobbes, I might start with a gutshot, just to see if he can be that stoic with his innards hanging to his knees.
Clemens mounted up, turned his horse south, and rode away. Their stares made the back of his neck itch. He grinned, a savage expression men like Gabriel Troy would have recognized.
14
Horses and heretics surged against chains and ropes, dragging the wall segment toward an angled trench ten feet deep along its terminus. More Troublers pushed against the back side, muscles straining. Soon the segment thudded into the trench. When the dust settled, the section leaned outward a bit, so Melton, the foreman on duty, directed the workers and animals as they pushed and tugged it straight. More workers shoveled and packed the loose dirt in, leaving twenty-five feet of wall above ground. Then they nailed prepared wooden braces to the wall on the city side. Another group mounted lad
ders near the seam and hammered supporting planks onto the two sections, shoring up the connections. Finally they painted the wall with pitch, waterproofing it. Yet another bunch was already digging a trench for the next section, their bodies lean and filthy and glistening with sweat.
Benn sat his horse nearby, eating a slice of jerky. I hate to see these wretches loosed from their rightful places on the street, even for a work detail. But Mister Rook insisted the Troublers erect the wall themselves. And I admit it feels right.
Melton rode his dust-colored stallion and signaled to the field bosses, who turned to the Troublers, shouting orders that were met with groans and a grudging increase in effort.
Benn rode up beside Melton. Mr. Royster sent me to check your progress.
Melton hawked and spat a thick greenish blob that Benn looked at with distaste. I don’t know how Glau’s doing, but we’re on schedule. Maybe even a little ahead.
Glau was Melton’s counterpart at the other end of the wall. When the two crews met, the Crusaders would march the Troublers inside and erect the last section themselves. The heathens would await the flood they did not even know was coming while the Lord’s own celebrated, rested, and put this godforsaken piece of swamp behind them.
I visited Glau earlier, Benn said. He’s ahead of schedule.
Thank the Most High. This humidity is killing me. I feel like I’m trying to breathe soup.
Benn chuckled, but Melton was right. The air was thick and oppressive. It had gotten progressively worse as the herd of prisoners had trudged ever southward; since leaving Washington, Benn had seen upward of two dozen Troublers collapse, their filthy bodies dragged hither and yon by their mates still chained to them at the ankles. Now, more from the work crews fell every day, and anytime the Troublers stopped to help a fellow who had collapsed, the field bosses laid into them until they went back to work. It hardly seems charitable, but Mister Rook is closer to God than anyone. Gabriel Troy might be stupid enough to question his orders, but I’m not. I plan to kiss my wife and daughters again, and that right soon.
