by Brett Riley
She arrived twenty minutes later than she meant to, having stopped every ten feet to reassure someone of their safety. She had never noticed how much time Troy spent doffing his hat and shaking hands and listening to folks’ troubles. Long had little patience for it. She was a warrior first and a diplomat second, or perhaps fifth, since she was also the chief weaponsmith and a loader of bullets and a pretty good hunter when Ford needed extra hands, just as he had worked well at her forges when she and her people fell behind.
We’ve always helped each other, but so many of us don’t even know anything’s wrong.
She passed Tommy Gautreaux and Laura Derosier, who were eating corn and beefsteak at a sidewalk table. She nodded. Gautreaux turned away and spat, his big belly heaving, juice dripping from his thick gray beard. Derosier saluted without getting up, the gesture almost defiant. She’s gonna slip one of her knives in my back if this goes on much longer. For all Long knew, Mordecai Jones and Antoine Baptiste lay in wait somewhere ahead, guns already cocked, the bullets that would shatter her skull already chambered. Them four. They’ve always been tight, but ever since Gabe fell, they’ve been joined at the hip. They’ll be a real boon to us if they don’t skewer my gizzard first. I wish I could tell em to be careful, but these days, they ain’t like to hear anything I say.
Ford waited in the darkening woods, looking over crops and workers. He was still riding Rachel. She held her head aloft, sniffing the air. Long allowed Cherokee, her reddish stallion with the white star on its forehead, to saunter under the cedars and pecans. She reined up beside Ford. They watched as the workers left the fields. The sun set, the long gamboling shadows of humanity blending with the forest’s shade in a great and shadowed pool. As if the people were fusing back into the land they worked.
You pick your man yet? Long asked.
Ford did not look at her. Fleming Lange. He ain’t in charge of nothin but a few rows of tomatoes and okra. Good at his job. Never late, seldom absent. He ain’t married, and the last of his family died in that cholera outbreak eight or nine years back.
He still a Loyalist?
Borderline. Ain’t spoke of rebellion, but in the fields and around the cannin jars, he’s talked of how the Crusade’s plan must be one of God’s own mysteries because he sure can’t see a good reason to wreck this town. He’s mouthed off just enough to make him a likely candidate but not so much to make him obvious. And I doubt he’d be useful in a fight. The meanest prey he ever killed was a fried green tomato.
Sounds perfect.
Perfect. Hell and damnation, LaShanda.
We’ve been through this. You’re doin the right thing.
Ford grimaced, as if he smelled something rotten. Sure. For everybody but Fleming Lange. You ever think maybe we deserve the water?
Overhead, a bird and squirrel argued in their chattering language. The last of the workers carried their hoes and baskets and shears from the field, along with the plenty bequeathed to them by God and the rich soil.
Sometimes, Long said.
I liked it better when we were just puttin our own lives at hazard.
I know.
To the west, an orange fingernail’s edge glowed like a beacon, drawing them to whatever event horizon God had formed there. They sat their horses under the trees for half an hour past dark, the woods coming to life around them, crickets and frogs and mammals that crouched a safe distance away, eyes burning in the starlight. The world coalescing and dissipating, watching them as they watched in their turn. They did not speak again until, as if in response to some signal, they nudged their horses and rode back toward the road.
Fleming Lange had no idea why they had summoned him to the dilapidated building on South Carrollton. The place was dusting back into the earth. He passed it every day but had never given it any thought. Now, according to his area supervisor, who had heard it from her foreman, who had gotten word from Santonio Ford himself, Lange had been chosen for a special duty. But what would find its genesis in such a place? The building reeked of age and weather, its boards crumbling, the brick and mortar broken as if some baleful child had gouged out the chunks with a dull knife. The long and glassless picture window, latticed with cobwebs, faced the street like a dead eye. The façade had probably been painted once, but it had faded to a no-color that disturbed him somehow. Perhaps the place’s destitution explained its utility.
Lange carried no special dispensation to be about after sundown. I shouldn’t have come. But Mister Ford and my bosses have always done me right. I just hope I don’t disappoint em.
The humid night was a fist wrapped in damp cotton. A weak breeze only underscored the misery. In the distance, hoofbeats drummed the streets. Boot heels clocked the seconds. Chains clanked amid groans and muted conversations. The horde’s whispers rose and hovered like the buzzing of a beehive. Nearby, the black river flowed through the moonless evening. Someone lit the streetlamps one by one. An occasional voice called for water.
Lange spat and thought about curfews and punishments.
Soon some of the footsteps grew clearer. They seemed to be heading his way.
Figures emerged from the gloom, their silhouettes bobbing together like the body of some misshapen beast. Lange stood straight, his pulse racing.
Then Santonio Ford’s voice called out. Lange? That you?
He relaxed. Yes, sir. Over here.
The figures were only ten yards away when one of them lit an oil lamp and turned the wick up high, dazzling Lange, who held one hand in front of his eyes and blinked, spots playing over his vision like swamp gas floating over a bog. The figures surrounded him, pressing in, their faces like skulls in the lamplight—Ford; new Lord of Order LaShanda Long; the young deputy, Gordy Boudreaux; that hot-head envoy named Clemens; High Minister Jerold Babb; and two Crusade guards, one of whom held the lantern. Clemens and Boudreaux and the second guard had drawn their weapons and were aiming at Lange’s head.
Lange blinked. What is this?
Clemens stepped forward, his voice flat. Is this the man?
That’s him, said Ford. He sounded sad.
LaShanda Long approached, a pair of cuffs in her hand. Stand against the wall. Palms on the wood. Make a wrong move and they’ll gun you down like the dog you are.
Lange blinked. He felt foggy, as if he had drunk whiskey and awakened on the red plains of another planet. He turned toward the wall and set his hands against it. It felt squishy. Mister Ford? What’s this all about?
Shut your mouth, Troubler, Clemens said. We know your heart.
Babb tsked. I never would have figured you for treason, Fleming.
Long grabbed Lange’s wrists and pulled them behind his back and shackled him.
Treason? he said. I know I broke curfew, but only because Mister Ford asked me to meet him here. Tell him, Mister Ford.
Long grabbed Lange by the shoulder and spun him around. Ford turned away. The others holstered their weapons and talked among themselves, as if Lange had already ceased to exist. His breath tore in and out of his lungs. Deep red panic fell over his vision like a caul.
You must confess, said Babb. Do not meet the Lord with a tainted soul.
Lange looked about, wild and desperate. He moved toward Ford. A guard shoved him back against the wall. Mister Ford, he shouted. Please. Tell em you asked me to come here. I’d be home eatin supper right now if it wasn’t for you. Tell em.
Ford said nothing.
Fleming Lange burst into tears.
Babb came forward and touched Lange’s forehead, tracing the sign of the cross. May the ever-generous Lord of Hosts forgive you.
Sobs erupted from Lange like foul effluvium. They watched him a moment. Then Boudreaux grabbed his arm and yanked him across the darkened street, toward the stoic and noble shapes of the horses. Lange wept like a lost child and begged to be turned loose. No one paid him any mind except Babb, who pr
ayed aloud, speaking of forgiveness and penance and mercy and hellfire. And as Boudreaux shoved him into the saddle, Fleming Lange knew he would never see the sun again.
As Boudreaux led the prisoner’s horse away, Clemens turned to Ford. Tell me again how you found him out.
Ford looked at him, annoyed. Ain’t nothin changed since the last time I told you. Fleming came to me and said he heard y’all thought I was leakin information. He knew people who wanted y’all gone. If I met with him here after curfew, he’d introduce me.
Clemens studied Ford with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow. Why didn’t you play along and ferret out the rest of the rebels?
After what happened to Gabe, it don’t seem healthy to ride with traitors.
How did he claim to know what we suspect and what we don’t?
Ford shrugged. He didn’t say. Just told me I’d find out everything tonight. I knew he was lyin about y’all suspectin me. Figured he was tryin to turn me. So I came to you.
Clemens shook his head. You’d think a Troubler double agent could do better. A transparent lie like that—even a fool would have seen through it.
Ford clenched his teeth. I’ll tell you what’s transparent. That you don’t like me much. And I’d rather stick my privates in a bear trap than throw in with you. Well, he said, when your best friend turns traitor and you chase him off a bridge, it tends to change your views. I reckon he just miscalculated which way it changed me.
Maybe. Boudreaux will get it out of him. Your friend’s got a flair for interrogation.
Does he, now?
He does. Let’s go.
Clemens mounted up and rode after Boudreaux, taking the guards with him. Ford and Long lingered. When they could no longer hear hoofbeats, Ford spoke. What we did here tonight damns us.
Long squeezed his arm. I hope the Lord sees it different. You’re more important to His true work than Fleming Lange. It’s one man or many.
I don’t reckon choices like that should be up to us.
For a while, they listened to the prisoners’ buzzing conversations, as if a plague of locusts had infested the streets. Look, Long said. Ain’t no point in wishin it could have been some other way. It’s this way, and that’s all there is to it. Now let’s go home and wash this day off our hands.
She spurred her horse and trotted away, leaving Ford alone.
Close by, the river wound across the world like a flat black string. He stood beside Rachel, patting her sides, feeling her thick muscles. A good horse, steady in a firefight. Maybe one day he could put her out to pasture. She deserved to live out her days in peace. But peace, like clear consciences, was in short supply.
Boudreaux led Lange past the outstretched arms of writhing Troublers. Unwashed flesh, human waste in festering heaps. Clemens and Babb and the two guards followed, Clemens spitting on upturned faces and laughing at shrieking children. Babb pulled his shirt over his nose and wiped his reddened eyes. Clemens drew his revolver and pointed it into the crowd, grinning when they cringed and shrieked. After that, Boudreaux refused to look at him. I’ll kill him if I do. The streets stretched before them in ever longer and darker iterations, wrinkles on the earth’s face. Finally, the riders reached the High Temple. Boudreaux saluted the gate guards. When they saw Lange bound and weeping, they scowled and spat at his horse’s feet.
Boudreaux was not entirely sure Lange had done anything wrong, but what of that? He was just another damned soul. So were they all.
The prisoner’s eyes were fixed on his horse’s neck, as if the answer to how he had come to this sorry end were written there. Now, as they reined up at the Jesus statue and dismounted, Lange wept again, his voice low and craven.
Please, Mister Boudreaux. I ain’t done nothin. I don’t know why Mister Ford thinks I did, and if I gave him the wrong impression, I’m real sorry. Just let me talk to him. Please, sir.
Boudreaux said nothing. He helped Lange dismount without fracturing his skull or breaking an ankle and then pushed him toward the Temple.
Quiet, Clemens snarled from behind them. Or I’ll shoot off your genitals.
Lange stopped talking but continued to whimper, low in his throat like a kicked puppy. They shoved him into the Temple and past the empty front desk. Unger’s gone. I ain’t never seen that desk without him. It looks like a face without a nose. Did they do somethin to that poor old man? The night guards stood at attention against the walls. Clemens’s Crusaders joined them as Boudreaux, Clemens, and Babb marched Lange upstairs and found Royster’s door open, the man himself standing at the stained-glass window looking onto the courtyard, the buildings across the way reduced to pure geometry and shades of dark.
Royster turned and smiled. So this is the traitor in Mister Ford’s territory, eh?
No, sir, Lange blubbered. I—
Clemens pistol-whipped him across the back of the skull. Lange sank, moaning, blood dribbling from the wound.
Royster watched without expression. You will speak when prompted, or Mister Clemens will pull out your tongue. Brother Babb, has this man confessed?
No, sir. He claims innocence. His story hasn’t altered a jot.
Royster shook his head and tsked. I suspected as much. Most captives turn sarcastic and indignant, but sometimes they show their cowardice. Or is this strategy? Perhaps you hope we will let you go back to your hell-bound friends if you refuse to confess. Is that it, Troubler?
No, sir, Lange whimpered.
Clemens kicked him in the ribs. Babb winced. Lange crawfished and gasped for breath, slobbering all over himself and the floor. Royster looked at Clemens, who shrugged. I figured the question was rhetorical, the deputy said.
He dragged Lange to his feet. Royster turned back to the window. Normally, we would interrogate you. But our time here grows short, and frankly, what you know or don’t know matters little. This is your last chance to confess. Do it or don’t.
Babb put a hand on Lange’s shoulder. Fleming. I beseech you. Set your burdens down before it’s too late.
Lange looked into Babb’s eyes for a long time. Then his fists clenched. He set his jaw and slowed his breathing and drew himself up to his full height. It ain’t me that needs absolution. You’re murderin an innocent. May the Most High forgive you.
Royster laughed. Mister Boudreaux, take him out and dispose of him. You may choose the method.
Yes, sir, Boudreaux said.
Father, receive him into Your kingdom, Babb said. Your glory to behold.
Clemens grabbed Lange’s elbow and yanked him toward the door. Lange held his head high. They had never uncuffed him. Boudreaux followed, his face as blank as an overcast sky.
Minutes later, Boudreaux and Lange passed the Jesus statue. The night grooms sat on one of the courtyard’s benches, talking low. The horses watched the deputy lord and condemned prisoner pass and then turned back to whatever contemplations occupied their minds. Lange wept but did not speak. Boudreaux would not have heard anyway. He had burrowed deep inside, hoping to unearth the self he had once been. I’ve rode to the river at least half the days of my life. I always knew the way. Now my head’s all aswirl, and I’ve lost the light of the Lord. Troy and Royster, the city and the Crusade—hands molded and stretched him beyond the most tangential human shape. He never smiled or laughed anymore, his mouth always the same thin line, his eyes dead. At least Lange’s cryin. He knows what’s about to happen ain’t deserved. When was the last time I felt so sure of anything?
Before crossing the river. Before Kouf.
The gate guards saluted. Boudreaux ignored them. Lange wept and wept, tapping some unfathomable reservoir. Perhaps, before the end, he would reach into his guts and find his dignity again, as he had in the lord’s office. But it would matter little, as nothing mattered. Lange would die. The Crusade would crush Boudreaux’s closest companions or shatter itself against the Troublers’ resolve. Eventually, tim
e itself would forget the Crusade and all its deeds. Boudreaux would die, shot off his horse or run through by some scraggly Troubler, or perhaps he would grow old and become a limping shadow, like Tetweiller, a man who had once ridden into a nest of Troublers and killed them all, three with his bare hands, a man who could barely get out of bed these days. The winds and rains and searing summer heat and transitory human memory would erode every achievement, every hope and dream, leaving only bleached bones and crumbling buildings that might have housed anyone at all. What trace would linger for the next world’s historians, and what would they make of the strange effluvia?
Boudreaux and Lange crossed Decatur and mounted the steps to the levee and crested and went down the other side to the water’s edge. The mud smelled strong and rich, like new copper. Lange had stopped crying. He watched the river, a great snake with its mouth open to the Gulf. In that water swam catfish and bass and bream and gar and alligator and, near the mouth, bull sharks capable of ripping a man in half. In it floated the bodies of prisoners, Crusaders who stumbled into Troubler nests, small children who wandered too close to the edge, and youngsters who swam out past the easy water and foundered in undertows as strong as gravity. And of these bodies the fish would eat, and then people like Ford would catch those fish and fry them or roast them over open fires and feed them to the hungry population. Cannibalism after the fact, a circle of consumption. And in a world where such was possible, what consequences from one more death? What price the life of men like Lange, who chose wrongly once in their lives and walked the earth dead without knowing it until their fates caught up to them at last?
Boudreaux put a gentle hand on Lange’s shoulder and exerted pressure. Have a seat, he said.
He expected Lange to turn and fight despite his bonds, but he did not resist. Instead, he prayed aloud—for his soul, for redemption. In that moment, Gordon Boudreaux hoped those prayers would be answered, that a bolt of lightning would burst from that overcast sky and strike him down, but nothing happened, and nothing would. God had turned His back again. Boudreaux did not blame Him. Nothing but blight here, foul excretions waiting for the cleansing waters.
