A Broken Time

by Anna Oney

  A Broken Time

  A sequel to The Leftovers of a Life

  Anna Oney

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  A Broken Time

  PROLOGUE

  PART I | THREE RINGS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART II | RED RAIN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PART III | COMING TO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Daddy, who wrote me this note, and left me a bowl of beans and cornbread when I was feeling down and doubting myself. Love you!

  “Anna, you are the sunshine in my life. You are a cool breeze on a summer day. You are the one who gives life meaning. You and the thought of you keeps me sane. So, I thought you might like some of these beans. Your biggest fan, Darrell Oney.”

  PROLOGUE

  Humans couldn’t see its true form without its permission. On the off chance that people would slow down and appreciate nature, they’d stare after it with awe. Its feathers were cherry red, and its wingspan was larger than most cardinals. A cardinal that caught the eye of a mortal was usually just that — a bird. But this creature was much more.

  It was a spirit.

  Behind the veil that separated the living from the dead, this spirit was known as a Soothsayer — a spirit that could foresee certain aspects of a person’s future, while other parts of that person’s fate remained unwritten. If the spirit felt inclined to nudge a mortal in the right direction, it was required to get permission from Father. From the Lord God Himself.

  The spirit could sense and see everything that made a person who they were. Were they kind or hateful? Envious or grateful for what they had? Or were they vengeful or forgiving? Most times, however, the spirit found that people weren’t one or the other, but a mixture of both. Whether or not they’d choose to be the best versions of themselves was completely up to them. God had bestowed His children with that right since the beginning of time.

  Like all spirits, it was once human, and when this spirit was such, it had experienced its share of loss. Since the decline of modern medicine, the life expectancy of human beings had been shortened. The spirit knew the four remaining grandchildren of Tom and Emma McCord didn’t want to lose anyone else. The grandchildren’s youngest siblings, Emma and Darby, who had been named after their deceased grandmothers, died of complications with pneumonia three years back. These young women were so close it was known by their family that if one of them fell ill, the other would show symptoms soon after.

  Samuel and Willa McCord were so grief-stricken by the loss of their youngest children, the spirit could sense their depression weakening their immune systems, and turning their auras to a dark, muddy grey. Their heartache had made them susceptible to the same sickness that had snuffed out their daughters’ flames. They died within two weeks of each other, leaving their four grown children parentless.

  The McCord siblings were so blinded by their sorrow that they failed to notice the cardinal flying over them wherever they went.

  PART I

  THREE RINGS

  It is desirable that a man live in all respects so simply and preparedly that if an enemy take the town . . . he can walk out the gate empty-handed and without anxiety.

  —Henry David Thoreau, Walden.

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 19, 2086

  On that foggy, spring morning, the bullfrogs inhabiting the pond had stopped croaking. The crickets had stopped chirping. Fawn couldn’t sleep without background noise. Naked, she lay flat on her back, fiddling with her Gran’s cross around her neck.

  Fawn’s sanctuary was a tepee constructed of stretched out animal hide and wooden poles. It was located at the back of the pond away from everyone else. The flap at the entrance of the tepee whipped back and forth in the morning breeze. There was another adjustable flap at the top, which allowed smoke to escape when Fawn felt the need to build a fire. Most of her neighbors lived in cabins they’d built or dwellings that had been constructed long before the solar flare had hit.

  Plagued by a constant fear of invasion, Fawn rarely got through a night without checking to make sure her bow and her father Samuel’s hatchet were within reach. Most of her nightmares were reminders of battles fought. As a child, she’d memorized every detail of her father’s back as he rode off to lend aid to his comrades in need.

  Before the communities were founded and allies were forged, chaos had often broken out. Most altercations were men’s pissing contests or bloody arguments over hunting grounds.

  Over a span of sixty years, Back Wood and the Bogan Farm became a strong force. The farm was led by Aiden Bogan, who was on his deathbed. Aiden’s son, Hunter, was set to take charge once Aiden passed away. A distance of only six miles stood between their two communities, so they’d combined their resources.

  Hunter was the only man who had managed to catch Fawn’s eye and keep it without annoying the bejesus out of her. The passing of Fawn’s sisters and parents had left her broken, and Hunter had been there to nurse her heart back to health.

  Other communities that Back Wood had bonded with were Caddo, led by Laken Denney, and Stagecoach, led by Clancy Rinehart. Back Wood was the beating heart of the four communities, not only because it was at the center, but also because its people made weapons and bred horses.

  Samuel had branded Fawn with the knowledge to not only survive in the harsh natural environment, but to thrive in it. She’d learned to move across the woodsy terrain with speed and stamina in such a way that she couldn’t be heard.

  None of the McCord siblings had ever heard the echoing bang of a gunshot. Four decades ago, Back Wood’s rifles were rendered obsolete the day their last bullet was fired. They’d combed the land for hundreds of miles looking for ammunition, but never found any.

  The people of the communities had been forced to learn ancient ways to defend themselves. The longbow was Back Wood’s main way of safeguarding their community, along with spears, knives, hatchets, and the occasional, well-hidden trap. The relics of automatic rifles were on display inside the bunker beside Wakiza’s spear.

  Sixty-three years ago, the spirit world had collided with Gran’s when she, her love, Tom, and her best friend — a white pit bull with a red collar, named Stella — decided to go for a run through the woods. Gran had described the collision in her memoir. The thr
ee of them had come upon her father Doolie’s old Indian dig where Stella had sprung into action. The pit bull had unearthed a spear-tip that had been carved from a brown and red stone, resembling a flame. As soon as Gran clasped her fingers around the jagged edges of the spear, a pair of footprints had appeared behind her. She hadn’t known it then, but the prints belonged to a lost Native American warrior, named, Wakiza, who had died three centuries before and had had a dog companion of his own, named, Ahanu.

  During Gran’s quest to find her brother, Griffin, and bring him home, Wakiza’s tale of woe had come to her in dreams, and a near-death experience caused by a cannibal, named, Roland. Wakiza had taken Gran by the hand and walked her through the spirit world. He had replayed the moment when he’d lost the spear-tip on a hunt, and how his father had banished him for losing their family heirloom. Not long after, he and Ahanu had been cast from their community, and their people had been massacred by a group of cowboys invading their land.

  As Gran and Wakiza’s journeys had ended, the warrior gifted the restored spear to her. Wakiza had told her that she was the next generation’s warrior, and as long as she kept the spear close, he and his people would be tethered to her.

  The night before, Fawn’s brother, Axton, and his wife, Polly, had a party for their son Jackson’s ninth birthday. Instead of joining in the festivities, Fawn had decided to eat on her own. Crowds made her nervous. She could only take people in small doses. This was mostly due to the women of Back Wood’s scrutinizing stares. These dirty looks were brought on by their childish jealousies of the thirty-one-year-old’s flawless, tanned skin, and toned physique. Or it could’ve been the fact that she was born on Halloween. Maybe it was fear that made them keep their distance.

  Another contributing factor, Fawn believed, was that her parents had jinxed her by naming her after a creature as innocent and majestic as a baby deer, when she could possess the attitude and brutality of a raging buffalo. Because of this, Fawn spent most of her time hunting and scavenging for supplies for Back Wood.

  Raising her head from her furs, Fawn noticed a cardinal landing at the entrance of her tepee.

  “Hey there,” she said, propping her head up on her elbow. “Good morning.”

  The bird gave a light chirp and seemed to shrug its shoulder as it lifted one wing, and then flew away.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The crunch of leaves outside the tepee was followed by a soft humming. Fawn recognized the melody as Bob Dylan’s, “To Make You Feel My Love.”

  Reesa, she thought, and rolled over on her side.

  At twelve years old, Reesa was the eldest of Fawn’s brother Pete’s children. His wife, Audrey, became pregnant with Reesa at sixteen. They went on to have two more: Ally, and the youngest, Cade. Fawn’s sister, Marie, and her husband, Forrest, had a seven-year-old named, Meadow. In the early days, before the solar flare, teenage pregnancy was looked down upon, but now, people were getting married and having babies before their twenties.

  Of the four, Fawn was the only childless sibling. This made dealing with the public — especially the elders — unbearable. Being constantly asked when she was going to settle down and have a baby brought up painful memories of the miscarriage Fawn had suffered thirteen years ago.

  As children, Fawn and her siblings would beg to be sung to before bedtime. Willa would start off with Queen’s, “Radio Ga Ga,” or one of David Bowie’s hits, and Samuel would finish off the night with a Bob Dylan classic. Samuel and Willa’s parents had been raised in the modern world before the solar flare. It had been important to them to pass down their love of music to their children. All they had were the artists’ lyrics, no instruments. Whatever sound effects they produced came from their mouths.

  Reesa stopped before the entrance of the tepee and continued to hum. Fawn could see Reesa’s lower half between the small, open space of the flap.

  “Aunt Fawn,” she whispered. “You awake?”

  “Yes, I’m awake.”

  “We still hunting today?”

  Fawn had forgotten all about it. Damn, she thought. But she couldn’t say no to Reesa. The girl reminded Fawn of herself albeit, a much sweeter version. Above everything, Fawn wanted her niece to know how to survive.

  “Sure thing,” Fawn replied, slinging the blanket from her legs. “Wait for me by the dock. I’ll be right there.”

  Since their parents’ death, Pete had taken on the role of leader of Back Wood. For the last three years, most of the time he’d spent with his wife and children had been replaced by the community’s needs. Fawn couldn’t see Pete having the time to teach Reesa anything, especially how to fend for herself.

  Before Fawn could pull the tanned leggings past her thighs, the three rings of the intrusion bell were sounded. On alert, she donned her breechcloth and the fur top she had made from the hide of a bobcat that had slaughtered six of Back Wood’s chickens. It was cut half an inch below her belly button. After fetching her bow, hatchet, and the quiver she had made from the hide of a coyote she’d caught dragging one of Back Wood’s baby goats into the woods, she slipped her feet into her moccasins.

  Emerging from the tepee, Fawn spotted Reesa running toward her. Hurriedly, Fawn slipped her hatchet through a loop at her side.

  “Get to the bunker,” Fawn commanded, situating the bowstring across her chest. “Grab as many other kids as you can.”

  “But—”

  “Go now!”

  Beside the tepee, Juniper, Fawn’s brown mare, was tied to a line connected to two pine trees. They had been a pair since Juniper was a foal. Reaching the animal, Fawn untied the reins, and ran her palm down the curve of her closest friend’s back. Fetching the blanket strewn over the line, she whistled twice.

  Juniper whipped back her snout, revealing the white diamond on her forehead, and leaned forward.

  Fawn covered Juniper’s back with the blanket’s soft material and mounted her. Being one of the few that rode a horse without a saddle gave Fawn a great sense of pride. It was the way of her Native American ancestors.

  “Good girl,” she whispered, patting Juniper’s neck.

  Grasping the reins, Fawn gave her friend a light kick in the side, and they were off. The barrier was only fifty or so gallops away. They passed a dozen children and their frantic mothers trying to reach the bunker. Four minutes later, Fawn and Juniper arrived at the rusted red fence. They paused at the top of the hill, gazing at the twenty-foot-high platform, and wooden posts they’d erected to protect Back Wood.

  The last time the intrusion bell was rung, Fawn had nearly lost her life. Three months ago, they’d let someone in who wasn’t honest. Though the stranger’s tale of woe had others convinced, Fawn had had her doubts. Her ability to read people was her greatest gift. Her doubts concerning this fellow were confirmed when she’d caught him stealing food. She’d confronted him and he’d pulled a knife — but she’d been quicker with her bow.

  Shaking her head at the memory, Fawn gave Juniper a light kick, and they were off again.

  Arriving at the gate, Fawn shouted up to the twin teenage guards, Tucker and Manny.

  “How many?”

  “Just one,” Tucker replied, and then bellowed out a deafening sneeze. “Dang pollen.”

  “Why are y’all ringing the bell for one man?”

  They looked at each another, and then flashed her with an awkward smile that showed their teeth.

  “Is he armed?”

  “No,” Manny replied, looking over the fence. “He isn’t carrying anything I can see. Besides, he’s asleep.”

  “He’s unconscious?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Tucker nodded. “Looks that way.”

  Idiots.

  “All right then,” she said, motioning toward the gate. “Open it.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Pete?” Manny asked.

  Fawn scanned him coolly.

  “It’s just one man. Now, open the gate.”

  Tucker pulled on a rope that controlled the locking m
echanism. He then motioned for Manny to pull on another rope that was rigged to open the gate. The towering doors opened with an obnoxious screech. As Fawn rode through, she commanded the boys to close and lock the gate behind her.

  “Keep your bows on him,” she called over her shoulder, as she approached the unconscious stranger. “Be ready.”

  The man was barely clothed and emanated a nose-tingling stench. His tattered rags covered his penis and backside, but his chest, shins, and feet were bare and sunburned. He had a tangled nest of coarse, sandy hair, and a thick beard covered his jaw. A circular wound the size of a pebble scarred the middle of his chest, but it was the scarring of his hands that made her cringe. They’d been burned.

  Fawn dismounted and held on to Juniper’s reins as she stepped closer to investigate. She squatted before him.

  “What do you make of him?” Tucker asked, as he held a steady aim.

  “One thing’s for sure. He’s been on the road a long while.” A sudden gust of wind slammed the man’s odor against her face. She held the back of her hand to her nose. “He doesn’t smell too pretty.”

  “Doesn’t look it either,” Manny joked. Both boys chuckled.

  “Hey now,” she scolded. “A man’s misfortune is no cause for laughter.”

  They sucked in their inappropriate giggles and turned them into fake coughs.

  Fawn shook her head at their immaturity and then shook the stranger’s shoulder.

  “Sir,” she said. “Can you hear me? Wake up.”

  She placed a finger beneath his nose. Warm air engulfed her skin, and a pair of cloudy eyes stared up at her. She was rendered motionless by his scarred hand latching itself to her wrist, suggesting he wasn’t completely devoid of sight.

  “Oh, no!” Tucker exclaimed.

  “Should we shoot?” Manny asked, holding his aim.

  “No,” she called over her shoulder. “Just stay calm.”

  The man lifted his head and tried pulling her closer. His chapped lips parted, but no words came out. He swallowed as if his mouth was dry and tried again.

  “R-red,” he wheezed. “Red rain.”