A Broken Time

by Anna Oney

  Fawn set her sights forward. Her heart broke as she distanced herself from her closest friend. She couldn’t bring herself to look Juniper’s way. The sound of her hooves shifting in the snow, followed by a distressed neigh, conveyed to Fawn that somehow Juniper sensed this could be goodbye forever.

  “Keep her safe, Lord,” she prayed, bowing her head. “If I don’t return, make her next rider kinder and gentler than I ever was. In your name I pray.” She raised her tear-filled eyes from the ground covered in snow. “Amen.”

  ***

  By sunset, Fawn had ducked behind a four-foot wall of foliage and vines sixty feet from Stagecoach’s front entrance. About fifteen soldiers stood guard outside of the community’s walls. She stared them down, waiting for an opportunity to rush forward.

  Two clangs of a bell sounded within the walls. The soldiers’ eyes brightened as they scrambled through the front entrance, leaving it unmanned.

  “It’s time,” one of the men excitedly said.

  Fawn darted from cover and crept down the slope of tall grass. Cradling the automatic rifle, she arrived at the front gate just as the last soldier stepped within Stagecoach’s walls. People sprinted to the center of the community, shoving past the soldiers she trailed behind. Out of her element, Fawn tried her hardest to blend in, mimicking the soldiers’ straight postures and strong strides. The uniform shielded half of her face and kept her auburn waves covered beneath a hood.

  The soldier three feet in front of Fawn nudged his comrade’s shoulder.

  “It’s been a while since the last execution,” he said. “Sorry it’s one of our own. But it has to be done.”

  Blythe . . .

  “Yeah,” the other man said. “He should’ve known better. Commander Crane isn’t one to stray from tradition. It’ll be something to see.”

  The uproar of Stagecoach’s inhabitants rushing to the center of the community was overwhelming. In all the chaos, nobody noticed a small child huddled beside a trash barrel. Poles and powerlines had been erected within the community, stretching over the walls. Security lights and speakers led up the community’s gravel road.

  Fawn was startled by a group of six people sprinting in the opposite direction. A boy to Fawn’s right tripped and stumbled to the ground. He mumbled an obscenity under his breath and grimaced at his scraped palms. She stepped forward, offering the boy a hand. He stared at her reaching hand, and then met her gaze. She recognized him as one of the boys from the train station. The boy who’d urinated on his friend’s leg as a joke.

  “Your bow,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Your eyes. It’s you.”

  A lump surfaced in Fawn’s throat as panic set in. She’d been found out as she’d forgotten to remove her bow and quiver from her back. She turned to flee when the boy ran ahead of her, planting himself in front of her.

  “You were right,” he said, backing toward the front entrance, where his people urged him to hurry. “A change did come whether we wanted it or not.”

  Fawn stared after the boy until he and his friends escaped from the community. The distinctive tweet of a bird pulled her focus to the left between two houses. A cardinal had perched itself on the porch railing of the house on the right. The bird took flight, darting between the houses. Fawn followed the cardinal around the back of the houses until they arrived at the barn where she had loosed two arrows into Clancy’s chest.

  The bird hovered several feet in the air. Fawn blinked twice at the majestic creature, which was jabbing its splayed wing toward the rafters. In half a second, the cardinal disappeared around the barn, leaving Fawn to her task. She entered and began ascending ladder that led to the rafters. A sinking feeling in her gut slowed her progress. The NWA were too many.

  She stepped from the top rung of the ladder onto the floor of the rafters, which was littered with hay. A large opening overlooked a crowd of people who had gathered before a grand stage. Her heart sank as two soldiers led Blythe up the sidesteps of the stage. They’d stripped him of his shirt and shoes in the freezing weather. He wore only black shorts.

  Lowering herself to the floor, she scanned over the crowd, all screaming for Blythe’s blood. Joy’s words raced through Fawn’s anxiety-riddled mind.

  “It is you who must set Blythe free.”

  She took a rattled breath as she realized there was no miracle to be had. Blythe wouldn’t be walking out of Stagecoach. Not alive, anyway. Some of Blythe’s last words to her by the tree rang in her ears.

  “I always knew. The cardinal made sure of that.”

  Fawn pondered over whether Blythe was aware that she would be the person to end his life. To free his spirit from the confines of his body.

  Shaking her head of the thought, she rested her finger an inch above the trigger.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Upon Blythe’s arrival at Stagecoach, the NWA had patched up his wounds so he could face execution. He saw it as a waste of medical supplies, considering their plans for him. The cardinal had warned him of his death if he didn’t stop the Red Rain from being released, but he’d prayed that it wouldn’t come to pass.

  Two days after his imprisonment, two soldiers now led him, limping, from his cell to the sidesteps of a grand stage. His knees buckled at the sight of a post that had been erected in the middle. He turned to flee. The soldier at Blythe’s right drove his clenched fist into Blythe’s nose. Shooting pain and the world seemed to spin. He had watched his father being strapped to a post the day he had been executed. Blood seeped from Blythe’s broken nose. Steam made a swirling escape from a basin filled to the rim with hot coals, three feet in front of the post. The end of a crowbar stuck out from the sizzling basin.

  The crowd erupted in boos and hisses as the soldiers led him up the stage steps. The soldiers kicked at the back of Blythe’s knees, forcing him to kneel before the steaming basin. He hoped that when he’d confessed to Fawn that he always knew and didn’t regret a thing, she’d understood. The evil act that was merely minutes away from befalling him wasn’t her fault.

  The heat from the basin prevented Blythe’s body from reeling from the cold. He stared at the glowing coals, trying to drown out the crowd’s wicked chants. They made him feel utterly alone. No one was on his side. No one. Nothing could compare to the stab of loneliness. In an instant, he was transported back to his first day as a member of the NWA. The new kid. A prize pig for the NWA’s children to bully and tease. Only this time, the stakes were higher. This time, they wanted him dead.

  With what strength he had, Blythe fought against the soldiers’ grips on his arms.

  Suddenly, the crowd’s boos and hisses were replaced with cheers and thunderous applause. Oleander Crane had just climbed the steps he’d cleared.

  “Blythe,” she said, grinning down at him. “It’s been awhile.”

  Crane faced the crowd and stepped toward the edge of the stage. She raised her arms in the air, waving her hands.

  “Ladies,” she said, clapping her hands. “Gentlemen. Thank you for accepting me as your new commander. It is my honor to tell you all that we are right on schedule to restore this country to its former glory. In about two years, we’ll flip the switch on that solar flare and reboot our systems!”

  The crowd erupted in deafening yes’s and woo-hoo’s, waving clenched fists.

  “Now, I turn my attention to the traitor kneeling behind me,” Crane continued, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. “I ask for your help for the execution to take place.”

  Crane held a finger up in the air, signaling for the crowd to begin.

  “We burn the hands that rose against us,” the crowd recited in unison.

  Staring at the coals, Blythe’s lungs were stripped of air. The soldiers were thrusting his hands downward toward the basin when his father’s voice came to him.

  “Look up, son.”

  Blythe locked eyes with his dead father standing amongst the crowd waving their fists.

  “Eyes on me.” Plath spoke telepathically. His mouth d
idn’t move.

  Dad?

  Blythe felt no pain as the soldiers shoved his hands into the hot coals, but the smell of his searing flesh forced him to expel a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Don’t look,” Plath said. “Eyes on me. That’s it. You’re doing great.”

  Two minutes felt like an eternity. Crane waved a hand, signaling for the soldiers to pull Blythe’s burned hands from the coals.

  Blythe couldn’t bring himself to look at the damage that had been done to his hands. Instead, he peered ahead, into the eyes of his beloved father.

  Crane motioned toward the pole that had been erected in the middle of the stage.

  “Strap him to the post,” she said.

  Once the soldiers had secured Blythe to the post, Crane turned to face the crowd again and they quieted. She held up a finger, signaling them to say the next line.

  “We blind the traitor from the temptations that damned him to suffer this fate,” the crowd recited in unison.

  The soldier to Blythe’s left pulled the crowbar from the basin and stepped toward the post. The soldier spat at the glowing, reddish-orange tip and smiled as it sizzled.

  “Eyes on me,” Plath said. “She’s in the rafters. Her finger rests on the trigger.”

  The other soldier stationed himself behind the post. He forced Blythe’s head back, his fingers digging into the sides of Blythe’s face.

  His eyes left Plath’s for a moment and lingered on the barn standing tall behind the crowd. A petite figure lay on her stomach, peering through the scope of a rifle.

  Fawn . . .

  “That’s right,” Plath said, nodding. “It’ll all be over soon.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “We burn the hands that rose against us,” the crowd chanted along with Crane.

  The executioners shoved Blythe’s hands into the hot coals. The crowd’s cheers grew louder as he let out a deafening scream. Fawn wanted to cry out with him, but to do so would give away her position. The blood from Blythe’s nose made a trail down his chest. Fawn saw an opportunity. She sank to her stomach, peering through the scope of her rifle, which was equipped with a sound suppressor. She aimed the middle of the cross at Blythe’s chest. Tears stung her eyes as she rested her finger on the trigger.

  The soldiers took hold of Blythe’s arms, wrenching his blistered hands from the hot coals. They tied him to a post behind the steaming basin. The soldier at Blythe’s left pulled a crowbar from the hot coals, while the other forced his head back.

  “We blind the traitor from the temptations that damned him to suffer this fate,” the crowd chanted along with Crane.

  “Give me strength, Lord,” Fawn prayed, breathing out. “Help me put an end to his suffering.”

  She pulled back the trigger just as the soldier pressed the glowing tip of the crowbar to Blythe’s right eye. She rolled on her side, out of view, watching Blythe’s body go limp. She came to her knees, leaning back against the wall. She bit the fabric over her inner elbow, suppressing her cries. Swiping her cheek across her shoulder, she took a rattled breath and guided the barrel of her rifle around the wall.

  The blood from Blythe’s nose had disguised the gunshot wound to the middle of his chest. He’d stopped screaming. She aimed for Crane’s back, who’d stepped forward to investigate Blythe’s peculiar, unresponsive behavior.

  Her heart thudded hard against her chest cavity as she pulled back the trigger. The soldier stationed at Blythe’s right dove forward, throwing himself between Crane and Fawn’s line of fire. The crowd erupted in shrieks as the soldier fell from the stage, dead.

  Ten soldiers rushed onto the stage, using their bodies to shield Crane from potential gunfire. Fawn didn’t have a shot as the soldiers led Crane, cowering, down the side steps, disappearing into the crowd.

  “The barn!” someone in the crowd shouted, pointing toward the rafters.

  Fawn leaned back against the wall, out of view, holding the rifle close to her heaving chest. She took a deep breath and slung her automatic rifle over her back, prying herself from the floor. She descended the ladder with hurried feet, almost stumbling to the ground twice. She missed the second to last rung of the ladder and fell flat on her back, knocking the wind from her. She scrambled to her feet, wheezing as she turned toward the barn’s closed back door.

  Frozen in her tracks, she stared the scarred blind man in the face.

  “He always knew,” he said, smiling.

  His scruffy beard fell from his face, sprinkling to the ground. His tangled bird’s nest of sandy hair smoothed out into a tapered cut. Chills ran up and down her spine at the sight of his cloudy eyes filling with hazel. The burn scars plaguing his hands faded away.

  “B-Blythe,” she stammered, stepping toward him.

  “No,” he replied, slowly shaking his head. “I was merely a projection, sent to warn you of things to come.”

  “But—”

  “It is done,” he interrupted. “Blythe’s destiny has been fulfilled. Therefore, my purpose has been served.”

  “Where,” she said, swallowing back a catch in her throat. “Where is Blythe now?”

  “At peace,” he replied.

  The scarred blind man craned his head as though he heard something that hadn’t reached Fawn’s ears.

  “They are coming.”

  The scarred blind man faded back into the barn’s towering doors, vanishing from sight.

  Choking back the tears, Fawn slung her automatic rifle from around her back. She pushed against the middle of the barn’s double doors. On alert, she crept through the small opening she’d made. Rifle raised, she turned a corner of the barn. A dozen armed soldiers rushed toward her, aiming their weapons at her chest.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Blythe’s drifting eyes looked from the blooming crimson wound in his chest to the opening in the rafters. Fawn had risen from her stomach and aimed her automatic rifle in Crane’s direction from around the corner of the wall.

  With his dying breath, he whispered, “I always knew.”

  Showered in darkness, Blythe’s chin fell to the base of his throat. A rush of air passed through his lungs, as if he’d been hooked up to a breathing machine. He opened his eyes and they were flooded with a bright light. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his sight. He raised his jaw.

  Surrounded by mountains with snow atop their peaks, Blythe stepped down from the post. His bare feet hit the warm, cushiony ground with a soft thud. His senses were brightened by the scenery and the sound of a river that curved around the mountain several feet in front of him. Birds chirped and cooed in the distance. Honey locust trees lined the river, their branches hanging out over the water.

  Blythe’s mind was flooded with memories he’d shared with his father. Before the NWA had convinced them to tag along, Blythe and Plath would make camp at this very river. Looking at it now made Blythe feel like that eight-year-old boy, trying to catch fish with his bare hands as they leapt from the water.

  He peered back at the post, visions of his execution returning to him. It had happened. It wasn’t a dream. His life had been stolen from him.

  “How did I get here?” he asked himself, bringing his gaze forward. “Maybe this is the dream.”

  His father’s voice reverberated off the mountains surrounding him.

  “Not a dream.”

  He looked to the pale blue sky, dotted with white puffy clouds.

  “Dad,” he whispered.

  A group of fish sprang from the river and made a splash as they dove back into the water. Blythe stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at a man who knelt before the river. The man sloshed his hands through the water, and then patted them dry on his thighs. The man turned, revealing Blythe’s father’s face, smiling back at him.

  Plath came to his feet, waving a hand for Blythe to join him. The tentative steps that Blythe had been taking turned to sprints once he recognized his father. Plath stretched out his arms when Blythe reached him. He fell into Plath’s arms and
wept into the crook of his neck.

  “You did good, son,” Plath said, making circles on Blythe’s heaving back with his palm. “Made me proud.”

  “I’ve missed you,” Blythe said, choking back the tears.

  Plath took hold of Blythe’s shoulders, peering into his son’s watery eyes.

  “Me, too,” he replied. “Are you ready to meet our Lord and Savior?”

  “I don’t think He’ll like me very much,” Blythe said. “I went along with the NWA’s views for far too long. Never questioning them. I was so weak.”

  “Yes,” he replied, joining Blythe’s side. “But you changed for the better.”

  Another school of fish sprang from the water and splashed down. The spray from the splash outlined the railing of a transparent bridge across the river. Blythe jumped as Plath grasped his trembling hand. He led Blythe over the hump of the invisible bridge. Blythe peered downward, taking in the image of the fishes’ flapping tailfins under the water. He looked farther down the river. Boulders broke through the water’s surface, causing foam to form.

  They stepped onto the rocky terrain of the river bank. The gravel and jagged-edged stones should’ve cut into Blythe’s bare feet, but he didn’t feel a thing. Weedy growth and wildflowers sprouted up between the larger stones.

  Plath led Blythe to a wall of stone at the base of the mountain. Foliage, sporting small white blooms, had grown at the bottom of the wall, spreading up the stone through the cracks.

  “Remember when you were a kid?” he asked, pulling Blythe closer. “When you’d be lying on your back looking up at the stars above the mountain? You asked me how God had created something so big and beautiful.”

  They halted before the wall of stone.

  “Yes,” Blythe shakily replied, turning toward his father. “Why?”

  Plath rested his palm in the middle of Blythe’s back, bringing him face-to-face with the wall.

  “You can ask Him yourself,” he said. “He’ll show you.”