by Anna Oney
“Right,” he agreed. “I would’ve gone after Davlyn myself, but things have gotten worse since you were kicked out. I can’t leave without someone from the NWA being up my ass. I was lucky to have been able to sneak out today.”
Fawn patted Pete’s knee and nodded.
“All right,” she said, rising from the log. “I’ll go after Davlyn. She might’ve gotten held up by something on the way to Stagecoach.”
“Before you go,” he said, pausing to reach behind his hip. “Blythe asked me to give this to you.” Pete’s hand reemerged, clutching at the holster and pistol Blythe had promised to hide inside her tepee. “He caught me as I was leaving Back Wood. He was adamant that I give it to you. He wouldn’t tell me why.”
She strapped the holster to her right ankle, envisioning Amos’s smiling face. A wave of bitterness crept from her heart-shaped lips.
“It took the blood of one of our own to open your eyes.”
“I-I know,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I wish they would’ve opened a lot sooner.”
PART II
RED RAIN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Over the pond, Blythe sat on the rickety dock bench across from Fawn’s tepee. Water spiders skated over the clouds reflecting off the pond’s glassy surface. Tall grass, tangled in burr reed and yellow flag flowers, circled the stagnate water. Beetles scuttled across the lily pads scattered over half the pond. Five turtles sunbathed on a tree that had fallen halfway over the water some time ago.
Transfixed on the ripples rolling over the water toward the dock, Blythe’s mind rambled through the events that had occurred since Fawn’s banishment.
After he had parted from Fawn, Blythe hadn’t been able to hide the pistol as he’d promised due to the soldiers casing her area around the back of the pond.
During Vance’s arrest, Blythe hadn’t spoken up. He had been doing Fawn and Blythe a favor, yet Vance was the one being punished. The sight of him being dragged away hadn’t loosened Blythe’s tongue, it had only stolen his sleep, making him toss and turn all night. It seemed that Plath’s impenetrable desire to help those in need hadn’t been inherited by his son.
For two weeks, Vance was locked in that box until Amos cleared his name. Blythe had made himself scarce, ducking out of view when he saw Amos come limping with his cane, Gooner by his side. In the days following his release, Vance would have nothing to do with Blythe. Their friendship was done. Blythe wasn’t even able to thank Vance for not ratting him out as Amos’s other man.
Fawn and Amos were the only two of Back Wood’s people that couldn’t be accounted for the day of Tye’s disappearance. Asher had conveyed to Blythe that he believed Amos was lying about the other man altogether — that Amos was trying to steer his involvement in Tye’s death toward someone else. Blythe listened to this, knowing that Amos lacked the brain capacity to come up with such a scheme, but hadn’t said anything. Deep down, Blythe knew he’d played a part in Amos’s death. If he’d stepped forward, identifying himself as the other man, perhaps Amos wouldn’t have been killed.
Shaking his head, Blythe took his eyes from the water and stared at his hands, trying to distract himself from the past weeks. Earlier that day, he had lanced a boil, at least two inches in circumference and just as thick, from Mr. Gamby’s freckled back. Before he’d arrived at the dock, he’d scrubbed his hands for five minutes straight. The long-bearded drunkard had smelled of moonshine and the nose-tingling stench of body odor.
A swat on Blythe’s shoulder pulled his attention from his reddened palms.
“Blythe, my boy,” Asher said, sitting beside him on the bench. “I’m afraid we may have a problem.”
“Oh?” Blythe replied, his voice unsteady having been caught off guard. “What’s up?”
“Pete went missing for three hours the day before yesterday. Idiot doesn’t think I know about it.”
A hitch in Blythe’s breathing surfaced, forcing him to cough into his fist. He kicked himself for thinking Pete’s disappearance had gone unnoticed. All the guilt he’d felt over Vance’s imprisonment and Amos’s death had motivated Blythe to get the pistol to Fawn. The day before yesterday, Blythe had been fortunate enough to catch Pete sneaking from Back Wood’s walls, but he couldn’t risk telling Pete about the location serum that had been injected into his veins. That could have resulted in Pete confronting Asher, which inevitably might have led to Blythe being found out and dying the same way as his father.
After whistling a brief tune, Asher continued.
“My guess is, he went to visit that fine-assed sister of his. Probably has something to do with the retard’s death.” Asher brought his hand to the back of Blythe’s neck. “Pete lit up the tracker monitor.” He pinched Blythe’s flesh. “What concerns me is that Fawn didn’t show up at all. She didn’t show up on the monitor at the back barrier either. Where she had to have been because Vance escorted her from there to the cell with Johnny.”
“I—” Blythe began, turning his body to face Asher’s.
“Quite the conundrum indeed,” Asher interrupted, pressing his tongue to the back of his front two teeth. “Last I heard, you were the one that administered the juice to said fine-assed female. Was Dr. Wenze mistaken?”
“No sir,” Blythe replied, his stomach clenching. “Dr. Wenze wasn’t mistaken. The batch I was given must’ve been defective. I’ve heard of a couple of cases where the serum dissolved upon injection and wouldn’t take.”
Luckily for Blythe that had happened before. If Asher went to Dr. Wenze to confirm, it wouldn’t come back to haunt Blythe. In truth, he’d emptied the syringe on the ground in front of Fawn’s tepee.
“You’re not lying to me, are you?”
Blythe shook his head, trying to hide his trembling hands by tucking them under his thighs.
“No, sir, I’m not.”
Asher draped his arm across Blythe’s shoulders. He hooked his elbow around Blythe’s neck, pulling Blythe’s head toward his chest.
“So,” Asher whispered in Blythe’s ear. “If I went to Dr. Wenze, he’d back you up?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” Blythe replied, wincing at the pressure on his throat. “That’s right.”
Asher breathed in deep and exhaled, removing his arm from Blythe.
“I’d hate to sit through another execution like your father’s. Brutal.”
The veins in Blythe’s neck became exposed with the rapid beating of his heart. He gulped, looking to the man beside him who grinned.
“It’s not looking good for the people of Back Wood,” Asher continued, tilting back his head. “Big Sneed found a trigger finger and a thumb down by the creek these heathens bathe in.” Asher rose from the bench, strolling toward the edge of the dock with his hands on his hips. “Found Tye’s weapon by the creek, as well, but that’s not where he died.”
Like all the Greenlee’s past plans, Blythe’s idea to thwart any suspicion concerning Tye’s demise had backfired. We should’ve just left Tye outside the barrier, and told the truth about the cat and Tye attacking Fawn, Blythe thought. Beads of sweat formed above his top lip. God, I’m an idiot. Why’d I convince her to get rid of the body? He swiped his finger below his nose. Bringing his trembling hand to his knee, he clenched his jaw. Because no matter what, Big Sneed would’ve ripped Fawn’s throat open like the cat had done to Tye. Or worse . . .and he would’ve made it slow.
“Tye’s body was moved,” Asher continued, leaning his shoulder against the dock post. “Big Sneed found a clue right outside the back barrier. I’m afraid we might have to introduce these people to some Red Rain.”
Blythe balled up his fists.
“I spoke with Oleander and she’s not exactly onboard with it,” Asher said. “She doesn’t think we should show our true colors just yet.”
Oleander doesn’t want to murder truckloads of people? Blythe thought. Must be because she’s never thought much of Tye. She prefers the company of his big brother.
When a community w
as deemed unmanageable by the assigned commander, it was eradicated from existence. Blythe had witnessed the destruction of three factions since the NWA had requested that the Greenlee’s accompany them on the road from Idaho.
The first took place in South Dakota. A woman had led an uprising against the NWA when they’d begun hauling children away in buses and separating the men from the women. The second was in Utah. An NWA soldier had been caught raping the wife of one of the community’s leaders. The husband had taken matters into his own hands, and slit the soldier’s throat, making a run for it with his distraught wife. They were unsuccessful and caused issues for their people when they revolted against the NWA after hearing of their leader and his wife’s executions.
The third occurred in Tennessee. Two young boys, thirteen and eleven years of age, stole a weapon from one of the soldiers as the man slept, accidently shooting him in the leg. The boys were stripped of their clothing and tied to posts at the center of the community for ten days. Their parents had led a short rebellion against the soldiers that put their sons on display.
Each of these communities had been doused with Red Rain — a form of chemical warfare. It was a controlled, poisonous gas that attacked the nervous system, and an effective killing tool that took only one shot to make. Lining people up to execute them wasted bullets.
“But, sir,” Blythe replied, sitting up straight. “These people are loyal to us.”
“They’re loyal to us because Pete is loyal to us,” Asher countered, raising his chin to spit at the water. “I’m not so sure he is anymore. Haven’t made my final decision, but it’ll be soon.”
***
After his discussion with Asher, Blythe excused himself from Back Wood’s walls, and went on his second run for the day.
He had used these four weeks since Fawn had been cast from Back Wood to better his physical condition. He found that easier than mustering the nerve to better the man trapped within himself. Every morning, Blythe ran three miles and took advantage of his comrades’ private gym, five tents down from the mess hall. During that time, he’d begun to discover muscles he never knew he had.
Red Rain, he thought, pushing through a stich in his side. Please not that. Not again.
Blythe arrived at the creek where a wooden bridge had been constructed across the murky water. A rope dangled from the cypress tree beside it. Back Wood’s children would get a running start before clasping their hands to the rope. In midair, they’d launch themselves from the rope, bringing their knees to their chests to perform a cannonball. The laughter and playful activities that used to take place at this bridge had ceased since Amos’s body was found, floating face down. Gooner hadn’t been seen since that day. The children of Back Wood could be heard calling out Gooner’s name, begging him to return home.
He sat on the middle of the bridge, hanging his feet over the edge. He failed to see a cardinal perching itself on a cypress knee to the left of the end of the bridge. He rubbed at his neck, trying to calm his nerves.
A woman’s voice spoke to him as clearly as it had the day of Tye’s death.
“You know,” she said, and sighed. “I’m disappointed in the way you handled the situation with Vance. He was a good friend. You . . . not so much.”
He widened his eyes, exposing the rod in his neck.
Not this again.
“I know how wrong it was, okay?” he replied, rising from the edge of the bridge. “I know.”
“On the upside,” she said. “Amos doesn’t blame you for his death. He should, but he doesn’t.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Of course,” she said, her voice booming around him. “Though, he won’t be able to make contact with his family for quite some time.”
Walking in the direction of where he thought the woman’s voice came from, Blythe noticed a cardinal perched on one of the tallest cypress knees ahead of him. He brought his hand to the back of his neck, remembering the time he’d been defecated upon.
The cardinal tipped its small head, fluttering its wings.
“I won’t do it again,” she said, chuckling lightly. “I promise.”
No, no, no, he thought, as his heart thudded against his chest. Birds can’t talk.
“I’m a spirit, dummy,” she scoffed. “I thought my ability to speak with the dead was your biggest clue. There are many different types of spirits. Behind the veil that separates the living from the dead, I’m what’s called a Soothsayer.”
“Veil?”
“Yes,” she replied, flapping her wings as she hovered above the cypress knee. “Mortals don’t realize how close to the dead they are. As a Soothsayer, I can see things that other spirits cannot. I even know things the living don’t know about themselves.” The cardinal darted forward. “And I know a lot about you, Blythe Greenlee. An awful lot.”
Backing away from the bird, his foot was caught in a concaved, rotted section of the bridge. Using both of his hands, he struggled to tug himself free. “This is just what I need,” he grumbled under his breath. “A spirit disguised as a bird messing with my head. Son of a bi—” he began to curse as his foot was dislodged. Stumbling backward, his arms flailed at his sides. He neared the edge of the bridge, knowing he was about to get wet.
The splash coated that side of the bridge with water, casting a shadow over the light-colored wood. He twisted the toe of his shoe along the rocks lining the creek bottom, experiencing a grimy feel, as he came up for air. He blew murky water from his nose. Even though it was mid-September, he didn’t expect the water to be as chilled as it was. Panting, he made his way to the bank with shaky arms.
The cardinal landed on the bank before him, its small feet immersed in the sand.
“I thought you were trying to take flight for a second there.”
He lay on his back, trying to catch his breath.
“Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“I can’t do that.”
He whipped his head toward the bird, casting water from his sandy, tapered hair.
“Why not?”
The cardinal took flight, hovering inches above his drenched chest.
“Because the lives of my people depend on it.”
“I can’t help them,” he said, sitting up on his elbows. “The damage is done. Even if I could help . . . it wouldn’t make a difference. They’d catch on to what I was doing and execute me on the spot.”
The bird’s flapping wings steadily fanned his dripping face.
“The NWA’s numbers are too many,” he continued, taking a handful of sand and tossing it to his right. “Your peoples’ weaponry is severely outdated.”
A breeze picked up, sending a rigor through Blythe’s body. The cardinal perched itself upon his raised knee.
“What if I told you that you were going to die, whether you chose to do the right thing or not?” she asked, gravely, digging her small claws into his knee. “Would that change your mind?”
“B-but that’s,” he stammered, backing away on his palms. “That’s not saying much.” He chuckled nervously. “We’re all going to die. S-someday . . .”
The cardinal came within an inch of his nose, staring Blythe down with her beady, glassy black eyes.
“True, but that’s the problem with you mortals. Y’all think you have all the time in the world to make things right.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The NWA had spent three days questioning Hunter on Tye’s death. They resorted to beating him when he hadn’t given an answer that was acceptable to them. By the fourth hour of the last day of his interrogation, they’d deciphered that Hunter couldn’t have been there at the time of Tye’s passing. They mentioned that he owed a big thanks to something called a “tracker monitor” for clearing his name.
The blood from the slashes that had been made on Hunter’s back from Sgt. Maude Finch’s whip soaked and dried through his ripped shirt. He spent the last four weeks lying on his stomach inside a box that was pitch black. For the first time i
n five days, he was sound asleep, keeping his head raised slightly from the wooden floor by resting it on his forearm.
The whimpers of a woman drew Hunter closer to a door with light piercing through its cracks. He came within four feet of the door and was startled when it opened on its own. As he entered the dimly lit room of black and white, a steady fall of rain tapped lightly against the roof. Hunter’s gaze was drawn to a man and woman sitting on the edge of a bed. Their arms were wrapped tightly around each other.
“Tom barely speaks to me anymore,” the woman softly cried. “It’s been ten months. I think he blames me. Maybe it is my fault.”
“Shhh! No, no,” the man said, pecking the woman’s forehead and stroking her back. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
The man raised his jaw, which was dusted with a light beard, and rested it upon the woman’s head as she wept into his chest. It was then that Hunter realized who the man was. It was his grandfather, Reed. The woman, whose curly locks of hair draped over half her face, was Fawn’s grandmother, Emma.
“How’s Samuel doing?” Reed asked, rocking her back and forth.
“Reed, I—” Emma began, tears streaming over her cheeks. “I . . .”
He brushed the hair from her face, behind her heaving shoulders.
“I’m here,” he whispered, tightening his arms around her. “I’m here.”
The hinges of the door squeaked at Hunter’s right, sending his shoulders to his ears. A young man in his mid-teens had nudged the door by accident as he peeked behind it. The resemblance between Hunter and this young man were uncanny. They had the same big brown, downturned eyes and bushy eyebrows. Both men had ears that protruded farther than normal from the sides of their heads, but Hunter had his shaggy hair to thank for concealing his large ears from the public.
Dad? Hunter said to himself.
A knock came from outside the box, jarring Hunter awake. The slightest moves he made sent a stinging sensation throughout his back.
“Your woman came to see you,” a crooked-nosed guard named Brody called from outside the box. “Had to put her in her place.”
