We were farther away than I thought when we left this morning, and it’s been a grueling day. Tom Barner laughed when I told him what happened with the sour mash, and all day long he’s been making me eat sprigs of some green plant. He keeps saying it’ll work, but I’ve yet to see any improvement.
Still, we should make it to the top of what the people call Black Rash Mountain before dusk, which was named after Carter Rash when he set a fire three miles wide way back when. From there, it’s a quick jaunt down the southern side and, we hope, right into the heart of the city.
The stragglers we’ve picked up, who live closest to Warrenville, don’t have much to say about it, other than that it’s big, it’s peaceful, and coffers are stocked to the rafters with supplies. But you only have access to them if you have money, and the merchants they trade with pay too little and charge too much. So they tell me that they mostly stick to themselves and only go into the city when they absolutely need something like medicine or flour to get them through the winter.
And up until this morning, I refused to send anyone ahead to warn the leaders of the approaching army. It would’ve been smart to do it two or three days ago, but I was terrified of losing another life. Keep everyone close so they could live to see another day seemed like the wisest decision at the time. Now I’m not so sure. I thought that with the slow slog of the DAV army, we would get back in plenty of time to warn them. Surely the citizens would be able to hold off the quick-moving vanguard if it was only made up of five hundred soldiers. Right?
I’m rethinking this and trying to decide whether or not it was a poor decision. No matter what, it’s too late, and the three men we sent ahead this morning should already be there. I’ll take the blame for the late warning and pray that it’ll be tempered by the fact that I’ve managed to save close to a thousand lives over the past week. How long they’ll live is another issue, and in a few short miles, it won’t be my problem anymore.
Hallelujah.
Just give me a bed and a bath for one night; I’ll take whatever comes after.
Rain pelts my face, but I don’t mind so much. I daydream about washing my hair while I walk point with Finn, trailing my hand across the top of the waist-high weeds in the deep green field. We’re pushing hard, and the others are so encouraged that they’re managing to keep up. If an army intent on enslaving us wasn’t close behind, it would be a nice place to relax and bed down for the evening, but we can’t risk another delay.
We step across a stream and scare two rabbits. A hawk dives into the lush green to our left. He emerges in a flurry of wings, a mouse dangling from his claws.
I point to it, showing Finn, and he says, “I hope that’s not an omen.”
I don’t have time to agree with him before a familiar sound ripples through the valley. It’s distant. Faint. Fighting against the breeze, buried in the woods at our rear.
We hear drums.
It’s the war rhythm.
Boom, boom, ba-boom. Boom, boom, ba-boom.
Finn inhales deeply, then screams, “Run!”
24
Panic. Fear. Defeat.
These emotions mar the faces around me as everyone rushes past us. They’re scrambling as they try to carry their possessions and flee at the same time. Fathers pick up children. Mothers hold babies close to their breasts. If their bags are too heavy, and we see someone struggling to carry it, we shout and tell them to leave it. Whatever possessions, whatever remnants of memories may be inside, they aren’t worth their lives.
“Go!” I scream. “Go south as fast as you can. Your refuge is over that mountain. Hurry!”
I feel like I’m standing in the river near our village after a heavy downpour, watching the water surge past me. I could drown in their terror.
“Caroline! Caroline!” I look over and see James pushing toward Finn and me. Bodies bounce off him. He picks up a child and hands the boy to his father. “We can’t make it.”
I have to make a decision, but I don’t know what to do. We’ll never run fast enough. These people don’t have any energy left. They’re not soldiers who have trained to be fit and strong. My people are simple families who have been surviving on what little they can scrounge up.
James says, “Look at them. So many.”
I follow his gaze, back to the tree line where we were thirty minutes ago, and I see them: the vanguard. They’re swarming from the trees like ants pouring from an anthill. It’s difficult from this distance, but I can make out their flag bearers and drummers marching side by side in the center, as the main body breaks around them at a full sprint.
It’s pointless. We’ll never make it. I should tell my people to stop and save their energy for the return march to the north. Then it occurs to me: maybe Finn and I could…
“James,” I say, “you go. Get in front and lead them.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Just go. Get them as far as you can, and, and—” I don’t want to say it, but James and his band of Republicons have helped us for as long as they can. They don’t deserve to become slaves for the mistakes I’ve made. Taking too long, allowing the horde to rest too much, not sending runners ahead so they could bring back relief, these mistakes are entirely my fault and mine alone.
We could’ve been there already. James, Marla, and the rest could’ve been safe days ago. I tell him, “If they’re overrun… take your group and get into the mountains. You’re faster there. Better. That’s all I can give you as thanks. Let their army focus on us while your group escapes.”
“No—”
“Go, James. Lead.”
His nostrils flare. He huffs and wraps his massive bear hands around me, pulls me in close, and kisses the top of my head. “I would say thank you, but I know we’ll see you at the top of the mountain.” The last I see of him is his massive body pushing through the flow of people, shoulders above everyone else. I wish I had his confidence in me. What I’m about to suggest is madness.
Finn says, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Will it work?”
“I don’t know. Us instead of them?” he asks, pointing his chin toward our flock. “Two Kinders instead of a thousand people? No.”
“Why not?”
I can barely hear him over the screaming. A young girl trips next to me, and I help her to her feet.
“Because they’re greedy bastards, Caroline. They want the cake and the pie. Thousands of workers, plus two Kinders? Those men will go home heroes.”
“Then what do we do?”
Finn bites his bottom lip and looks back at the approaching vanguard. I do too. They’re moving so much faster than I expected. They’ll be here in minutes. My people will be in chains before dusk. He says, “You go. Get away. You’ll do more good as a free woman than a captured one.”
“No. Not a chance.” I say it with such determination that he doesn’t bother arguing.
“Then this is our last option.” He takes off his backpack and slings it to the ground. He does the same with his coat, and then his shirt. His muscles flex underneath skin that stretches tight across them. Swells and crests ripple across his stomach.
If we were in a different place, I might have paused to admire his physique. There’s no time for that now. I notice the symbol tattooed on his upper arm. It’s bright blue, unlike the faded tattoos that the children back in my village use to draw on their skin with berry juice. It’s a chess piece. A pawn. That’s what I feel like right now. An expendable piece in a war bigger than one girl standing in a pasture.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Fighting.” He cracks his knuckles.
“By yourself? You can’t.”
“Then come with me, Caroline. You’re a Kinder.”
“Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m not. Not yet.”
“You’ve always been one. Always. Since the day she fed you the blood. Believe.”
Finn leaves me standing and sprints north toward the approaching DAV vanguard, dod
ging the last of my remaining people as they attempt their final escape. He leans forward, driving his arms, thrusting his legs, and picks up speed. I’ve never seen a human move so fast.
Before I can convince myself that this is lunacy, that I’m running to my death, I chase after him. At first, I don’t believe. My legs are strong from running through the forest back home for so many years, but I’m tired and weak from marching for days. I’m not moving any faster than I normally do. I can’t make myself go any faster.
Not until I see a little boy, maybe five years old, who’s clutching his father’s hand. They’re the last of the group. Tears stream down the boy’s face, and he’s so scared. I don’t recognize the man, but he’s hobbling on a single crutch. He’ll never make it. His boy will never make it. They have no chance to get away.
This whole idea of fighting for my people has always been too big, so much bigger than me.
Armies fight. States fight. Nations fight. I’m one person. This entire retreat, I’ve been wondering what I was doing and why. One single person, trying to make a difference. Have I changed anything on the way back? Does it matter? How can I make a difference when wars are fought over ideas and beliefs, religion and territory? Those things have taken hundreds of years to build, develop, and control. I’m just a solitary pawn in a valley.
I run past the father and the son. The boy wipes his eyes. His shoulders shake, and I hear the father saying, “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
It’s then that I make up my mind: I’m going to fight for the two of them. They are my reason. Let governments wage war over their grandiose concepts that are so much larger than one moment on a field. I’m fighting for that boy and his crippled father.
And as soon as I have a reason—a purpose—that’s when the warmth begins to flow through my body. I can’t define it. There’s a change. Like Finn told me days ago, I feel a sense of being pure.
Pushing my legs harder becomes effortless, and I’m hurtling across the meadow, getting closer to Finn, gaining on him, wondering what in the hell we’re going to do next.
We don’t have weapons. We only have ourselves.
Our bodies are weapons.
I scream Finn’s name, and he slows so that I can catch up. Side by side, our shoulders inches away now, sailing over the field like rocks fired from a slingshot, we glance at each other.
He grins. The vanguard is two hundred yards away. Five hundred men propel themselves in our direction, bellowing battle cries as they dash around the drummers and flagmen.
Boom, boom, ba-boom. Boom, boom, ba-boom.
The DAV blackcoats raise their guns and fire while they’re running.
Finn raises a hand as if it’s a shield.
I watch as the bullets get close, slow down, and then whisper around us.
Finn did that. Finn altered their trajectory. I’m in awe. I wonder if I can do the same. I remember how he said that each Kinder was different. So far, I have speed and strength. I’ve been able to move through time while those around me drag along like they’re swimming in honey. I can hear thoughts in another’s head. I can fly, somewhat. Is that all? What else can I do? Am I supposed to know?
As we get closer, maybe fifty yards now, the blackcoats seem confused, bewildered. Their bullets have no effect. Through their eyes, we should’ve been dead already.
A man in front, wearing a uniform that bears a red stripe from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist, lifts an arm high over his head. He must be a commander because he shouts, “Form up!” The front line of soldiers drop to their knees and pull their rifles up to shaky shoulders. Those behind them scramble to a halt and bend over, while the ones bringing up the rear either stand behind or spread out to the sides.
“Finn?” I say, with more panic in my voice than I intend.
“Don’t worry. Watch this.” He speeds up, and I let him go.
The commander shouts, “Aim!”
The blackcoats steady their weapons.
“Fire!”
Finn takes a bounding leap, then another, and launches himself thirty feet in the air.
I watch him, but I can also hear the bullets coming. I take a breath and concentrate. I believe.
Time slows for everyone else but me. Even Finn is drifting, drifting, slowly coming down. Bullets litter the air as if someone emptied a bag of dried corn kernels. I duck, sway, dodge, and move around them, grabbing some and throwing the warm hunks of metal out of my way. It’s smooth, painless, and effortless, and once I’m past the first volley, I exhale and let go of whatever is inside. Time returns to normal, and I emerge thirty feet from the first row of blackcoats. They’re stunned that I slipped through their shots. Some try to stand. The jaws of others drop as the commander shouts, “Fire at will!”
Only one soldier is focused enough to pull the trigger, and I easily dip around the racing bullet.
Finn lands among the soldiers, disappearing into the mass of angry men. A body flails through the air, flipping end over end, screaming. Then another, and another. There are gunshots and squeals. A soldier flies straight up, twenty feet above us.
I barrel into the first row, knocking five men down and out of my way.
I hold my breath. I believe.
Every person on the battlefield, Finn included, again wades through time like stepping in molasses.
Thoughts drift out of their minds.
Kinders!
What in God’s name?
I thought they were all gone?
I hate that ability. I focus on silencing it. I grab a blackcoat’s arm and swing him like a club, sending soldiers flying. Then I let go of him and watch as he flies away. Forty feet, fifty feet, before he lands. Arms reach for me. I step to the side and deliver a punch to a throat. Slow-motion choking. Gasping. The bearded man falls, drifting down.
From behind, I feel a knife piercing my side—that slick, sliding sensation of a blade parting skin. Strangely, it doesn’t hurt. I expect it to, but I’m bending time. I should know better. I spin, and the blade wrenches free from the soldier’s hand, still buried inside me. I growl, yank it loose, and watch as the man’s eyes slowly open wide. I bury it in his chest.
I find Finn in the middle, dart to his side, then exhale and allow time to resume its normal march to infinity. We fight in unison, throwing punches that send men three times our size tumbling like children half our size, or we land blows so hard that I can feel bones crushing and lungs collapsing.
We are one. We fight with precision. We’re in cadence. We’re a battle song.
We have our own war rhythm.
As we land blow after blow, as blackcoats drop one after another, I can hear it in my head…
Boom, boom, ba-boom.
Epilogue
I don’t recognize Captain Tanner—the DAV commander who had my entire village murdered—until after we’ve defeated the whole of the vanguard, except for a handful of soldiers who have retreated into the woods.
Finn shouts after them, ordering them to tell their leaders to bring all they have, because we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.
We make our way through the mass of fallen bodies and collect a number of weapons to take with us. The rest we leave behind in a pile in hopes that the PRV leaders can send a group to salvage what they can. We’ll need every one of them, I’m sure.
A mere handful of wounded remain alive. I know this is war, but it doesn’t feel right to kill them when they’re not fighting back, so I convince Finn to leave them alone.
“We’re warriors, not murderers,” I say, and he accepts this reasoning.
Besides, we know these men won’t come after us once they can get to their feet again. They won’t do it, not after they saw what we can do.
Captain Tanner lies on his back, staring at the sky and pretending to be dead. When I see him, when I recognize his face behind the gray beard he’s grown over the past week, I want to make him dead, but Finn says we should take him with us. I relent, because Tanner
will definitely have important information, and I can think of a few painful ways to get it out of him. None of them will be easy for the grizzled old murderer to tolerate. I assure him of that.
He stumbles, coughs, and winces. He claims his ribs are broken, and he can’t move as fast as we want.
Finn says, “Let me check for you,” and he delivers a sharp, powerful punch to Tanner’s side. Bones snap. The captain howls in pain, but Finn won’t let him fall. He makes him keep walking.
The three of us catch up to the others just after dusk. They’re all standing at the uppermost point of Black Rash Mountain—a thousand PRV citizens and a small gaggle of Republicons. When we’re close, they cheer and clap. They slap our backs in appreciation. They say, “We saw it. We watched you. You’re heroes!” and ask things like, “Are you really a Kinder? What does it feel like?”
James stands in the middle with a smile so wide that it seems to wrap around to the back of his head. Beside him are three familiar faces: Big Blake, Little Blake, and Squirrel, who looks well and rested.
We hand Captain Tanner to Marla and some of the others. “Don’t kill him, but feel free to be a little rough if he tries to get away,” I tell her. “His ribs hurt. Maybe he could use some… help.”
She nods and winks.
When Tanner’s gone, cursing me and struggling as Marla escorts him away, James shakes my hand, then Finn’s. He says, “I always thought Kinders were legends.”
Finn says, “Legends come from stories. Now you’ll have one to tell.”
James laughs and agrees. He puts an arm around me and says, “Let me show you something. You too, Finn. Come look.” We walk south, past more cheers and smiling faces. I see the little boy standing next to his father, who leans on the single crutch. They wave, and the father leans down to the child, saying, “See? I told you it would be okay.”
James guides us to a clearing. Beyond the valley and off in the distance, there’s a break in the clouds with a patch of blue peeking through. Warrenville glows orange from the setting sun. It’s too far to make it before nightfall, but I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful. Tall buildings, short buildings, glass reflecting the last light of day. It’s guarded by a large wall with a single road entering from the north and one from the south. If they have weapons down there, secretly locked away in direct defiance of the Peace Pact—and I pray to God that they do—it’ll be easy to defend, at least for a while.
The Last Legend Page 17
