by Thomas Locke
Atlanta and Charlotte Townships had vied for power ever since the Great Crash. Now they were at each other’s throats. The Catawba enclave’s elders had repeatedly been warned that it was only a matter of time before the two townships entered an all-out war.
Greenville Township still earned a hefty but precarious income, playing buffer. No bus traveled directly between the two regional fiefdoms. Anyone journeying south changed vehicles in Greenville.
The next morning Caleb, Zeke, and Hester joined other early risers in the hotel diner. After a hasty breakfast, they left the hotel just as the central market was beginning to wake up. They crossed the dusty square beneath a warm summer sun and entered the city’s old town.
Greenville had adapted better than many midsized townships, refusing to let the ruined city structures gradually waste away. Instead, they had been torn down and turned into parks and market squares. Caleb and the others crossed two such open spaces before entering a street filled with wealth and elegance. Armed guards were posted at every intersection. Parked along its pristine length were a number of private vehicles. Caleb and Zeke slowed to admire a few, until Hester reminded them that the bus would not wait.
Caleb and Hester entered a stylish men’s shop, while Zeke lounged at the front entrance. The sight of all the fancy clothes on display left Caleb not only subdued but questioning his plans. He was on the verge of turning away when a lovely saleswoman walked over, swept a disdainful gaze over his dusty frame, and said, “Can I help you?”
“My guard and I need two sets of clothes,” Caleb replied.
“You mean ensembles.” Then she realized what he had just said. “Your guard.”
“Right. And there’s a servant at the front entrance. He’ll need shirts and trousers.”
She dredged up a far more brilliant smile. “Forgive me, sir, but just to be certain, you can actually pay?”
“In silver,” Caleb said.
“In that case, you and your associates are most welcome, I’m sure.”
Caleb settled on two pairs of trousers, two open-necked shirts, a jacket, and tooled black boots with a matching belt. He waited while Zeke and Hester were fitted, and frowned his friend to silence when Zeke started to complain over the cost. Caleb paid what was required, and then paid extra for speed. The amount was so staggering he found it hard to maintain his calm mask.
As they were about to enter the palatial bathhouse next door, Caleb was struck by an idea so outrageous he laughed out loud.
Hester demanded, “Something the matter?”
“I need to go back.”
Zeke showed real horror. “You’re going to spend more money?”
“Absolutely. Stay here, I won’t be long.” Caleb turned away before his friend could argue further.
When he reentered the shop, the saleswoman appeared with lightning speed. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Caleb could hardly believe it was he who asked, “Can I hire a private car and driver to take us to Atlanta?”
23
Kevin and Carla headed south by west, taking the same Refugee Trail used by Caleb and Zeke. A quarter moon rose above tall pines separating them from Charlotte’s perimeter wall. Some of the other travelers carried lanterns, which was good, because Kevin had not been this way in over a year. There were more people than he remembered, especially given the hour. These travelers were mostly silent—even the younger children gave off little more than a whimper. They journeyed in every possible manner of conveyance, even some trucks whose innards had been torn out to make way for steam engines. Their belching wheezes were by far the loudest noise.
Carla clearly had a destination in mind, where he assumed they would meet Pablo. For the moment it was enough. They followed other horses riding along the right-hand boundary, hurrying.
Mostly to take his mind off his throbbing leg and the drumbeat of worries, Kevin asked, “What happened before you and Pablo arrived in Charlotte?”
Carla replied in brief snatches, halting whenever other riders moved in close enough to overhear. Life in Richmond sounded fairly good to Kevin’s ear, though the couple had lived under the constant threat of Pablo’s brigade being called away to the border disputes with Mexico. His company protected the arteries connecting Richmond to the Appalachian townships and the surrounding farms, which were vital to Washington’s survival. Carla taught school. Their mothers met and quarreled as mothers do, and planned the wedding. Until the day Pablo brought home rumors of new sweeps. Some new way had been developed by the Washington scientists to uncover specials. What precisely, no one knew. Rumors were rife, none of them pleasant.
Refugees journeying from Washington and townships farther north confirmed the reports. Then Pablo’s troop was ordered to set up new barricades along the Washington highways. His company was placed under grim-faced Washington bureaucrats. They erected roadside camps with tall electrified fences topped by barbed wires and guard towers.
Pablo came for Carla and told her what was happening, and they ran.
The first sign Kevin had of change was a great smear of smoke that drifted over the moon. Then he smelled the camp, a strong mixture of people and animals and grilling meat. They rounded a corner and came upon a large clearing that extended west from the road. People began turning off, searching for an empty spot where they could rest.
Carla slipped from her mount and said quietly, “We leave the road here.”
To Kevin’s astonishment, she took a narrow trail leading east and north, back toward the perimeter fence. Kevin resisted the urge to tell her how dangerous that was. He sensed it would merely be wasted breath.
The path meandered through a forest of pine and oak before fading entirely away. Somewhere up ahead, Kevin knew, rose the township’s outermost boundary wall. He had heard they lined such remote sections of the city’s perimeter with traps intended to kill and maim.
Even so, smugglers got through. Overpass was home to families who passed down secret paths to trusted members of each new generation. Kevin suspected the trail they followed was one such route. And yet it vanished up ahead, lost to weeds and a pair of young dogwoods sprouting summer blooms.
He decided he had no choice but to say, “We should turn around.”
In reply, Carla lifted her face as though sniffing the night breeze that rattled the branches overhead. Then she lashed her horse’s reins to nearby branches and slipped between the young trees and continued on. Kevin hesitated, then followed.
The trail opened up again on the other side, only now it was merely an indentation in the weeds. Carla stepped carefully, and Kevin placed his footsteps directly upon her own. Two hundred paces farther, a guard tower’s searchlight flickered over the treetops directly ahead of them. Still Carla continued on. When the tower came into view and the light shone upon armed men patrolling the balcony, Kevin hissed, “We can go no farther.”
This time Carla halted. She raised her face once more and shut her eyes. The sweeping light shone upon her clenched fists and taut features. They waited there for what seemed like hours.
Then the searchlight went out.
Shouts rose from the soldiers stationed on the tower as a siren sounded in the distance. The electronic wail rose and fell, spurring the militia to action. Kevin could see their silhouettes as they clattered down the steep stairs. All the lights in this part of the city went out, which made the moon appear brighter still. A second Klaxon began to wail, this one farther away. The soldiers piled into a truck parked beneath the tower, only to discover the engine would not start. Kevin could not make out their words, but the soldiers were clearly frantic. Confused. Angry. An officer shouted above the fray, drawing the dozen or so troops into some semblance of order. They marched away.
Carla whispered, “Here they come.”
Kevin found no need to point out that whoever approached would still be on the other side of a triple fence topped with razor wire. Not to mention the possibility of dogs patrolling the no-man’s-lan
d between the fences. Or mines and steel traps. Or . . .
Carla pointed. “They’re behind that first building.”
It appeared this area of Charlotte’s perimeter held small factories and warehouses. But there were a good two hundred yards separating the nearest structures from the fence. And another hundred yards of cleared terrain between the fence and the forest. A killing ground, Kevin’s combat instructor had called such areas. Bare space stripped of all cover, so that anyone who dared venture across would be decimated by fire from the tower.
Kevin could still see nothing move up ahead. Which was a good thing, because over to his right, high upon the darkened tower, two soldiers still stood guard. He was about to warn her, ask if there was any way for her to halt a suicidal rush by her fiancé, when the impossible happened.
The moon became shielded by a cloud that twenty seconds ago had not existed. A dark mist pushed toward them. The fog grew and extended until it covered the killing ground. Soon nothing inside the perimeter fence was visible. It drifted about the tower’s lower supports like a silent tide. If the soldiers up top noticed anything, they did not give any sign. From their perspective, they might have been simply observing a thick ground fog.
Then a head popped from the earth at Kevin’s feet.
24
When the last person emerged from the tunnel, Kevin and Carla led them back to where the main road joined the camp. The underground passage had left the group and their packs streaked with mud. The nineteen exhausted newcomers were aged between ten or eleven and midforties. Pablo was in his late twenties, a few years older than Kevin and Carla. There was no question that he served as the group’s leader. Anytime Kevin or Carla made a suggestion or directed their path, the newcomers looked to Pablo for confirmation. Whenever he spoke, they moved instantly, tired as they were, without protest or question. They did not merely follow him. They trusted Pablo to see them through.
When they reached the clearing, firelight illuminated a group that looked pretty much like everyone else. Their passage along the camp’s perimeter drew little attention. Together Kevin and Carla and Pablo led the group south of the main camp. They crossed a narrow creek that supplied the travelers with fresh water. Beyond that rose a stand of fruit trees, probably apple. The space was relatively empty because the densely packed trees kept out all transport except the odd wheelbarrow. Even getting the horses through the undergrowth proved difficult.
Kevin let the horses drink their fill, then led them to a narrow meadow where the mounts of other travelers had been hobbled and left to graze. The earth surrounding his group’s bedding was ribbed with tree roots, but he doubted any of them would be awake long enough to complain. Pablo said he and Kevin and Carla would take first watch, then pointed to others, making sure each person understood who they were to wake and when. One of each group was assigned to watch the horses.
Pablo was quiet and lean, with a middle-weight boxer’s taut build. He stood about five ten, almost a head shorter than Kevin. He was very self-contained, very calm even though he shared the others’ exhaustion. He reminded Kevin of Zeke but without the lightning speed. He and Carla were clearly in love. Every time they passed one another, they shared a look, a caress, a soft word. Kevin found himself aching for what he had once known.
When the others were bedded down and it was just the three of them, Kevin asked, “You’re a special as well as Carla?”
Pablo settled where he could clearly see the horses and replied, “We don’t like that term.”
“Or abomination,” Carla said. “Or perversion.”
“Those are all tags other people apply to us,” Pablo said.
“So what do you call yourselves?”
“Adepts.” Pablo shifted so as to gauge Kevin’s response. As though he half expected Kevin to laugh.
Kevin said, “It suits you.” As Pablo relaxed slightly, Kevin went on, “So you are one.”
“Yes.”
“What is your . . .”
“We prefer the term ‘specialist skill.’ Or ‘gift.’ We use both.” Pablo’s smile was as spare as the rest of him, a simple rearranging of his lips and the skin around his eyes. “What I can and can’t do needs to wait.”
“It’s hard to explain?”
“Hard to conceive,” Carla corrected. “Best if he shows you.”
“When there’s time,” Pablo said.
Kevin decided he had no trouble with waiting. He liked them both, and liked even more how their concern for these others dominated their lives. “So the lights going out and the truck not starting . . .”
Pablo pointed to one of the larger slumbering forms. “Barry. Electromagnetic wave control.”
Kevin stared out over the crew, thinking that such traits as these would not be readily surrendered by Hollis or the mayor. “Are we safe here for the night?”
“They need to rest,” Carla said. “Especially the young ones.”
“We’ve been using nights to prepare,” Pablo explained. “None of us have slept much this past week.”
“But they could track you,” Kevin said.
Pablo pointed to a man with a scraggly beard, snoring softly by the nearest tree. “Forrest will know.”
“And Hank,” Carla added, pointing to the man guarding the horses. “And Tula.”
“Forrest is better.” Pablo stretched out his legs. “He’ll take over next. Even so, my guess is Hollis and his wolves will chase their tails tonight. Come sunrise, we’ll be gone.”
Kevin asked, “Where to?”
“I was hoping you’d tell us,” Pablo replied. “It’s why I sent Carla to find you.”
“You’re their leader.”
Pablo shook his head. “I’m just a sergeant. I’m good at what I do. That’s not just my rank, it’s who I am. I don’t have the vision to play officer. Or the smarts.”
Carla protested softly, “Pablo. Stop.”
“I’m too tired for games.” He pointed at the sleeping crew. “They need a safe haven. They need a future where they’ll not be treated like the mayor’s new weapon. They trust me. I trust you.”
Kevin was about to say that he was not the man for the job. That Caleb was the one born to lead, and this conversation solidified their need to head south. But all of that could wait until Pablo and Carla had some much-needed rest. Instead, he asked, “Can you locate someone who’s trying to stay hidden?”
Pablo frowned. “Is that someone an adept?”
“Yes. There are three of them, two men and a woman.”
“Can they pass on thoughts or feelings?”
“The woman can.”
“We’ve never tried it before, but it might be possible. Where are they?”
“Atlanta, I think.”
Carla showed him a worried gaze. “Our group will never walk that far.”
“And buying transport for this many will only alert the authorities,” Pablo added.
Kevin nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. “I have an idea.”
25
When Kevin woke, the horses were gone.
The three guards last on duty, two young women and a teenage boy, were in tears. None of them could say when the mounts had been taken. All of them insisted they had stayed awake, and Kevin believed them. Or rather, he decided it did not matter. Venting his anger and frustration would not bring the horses back.
The group was slow getting started. They remained fearful around Kevin, as clearly their Charlotte experiences had taught them to be wary of anyone in authority. Kevin could see they were strung out, exhausted, and prone to make mistakes. What was more, the militia was bound to be hunting them. He could think of no way to keep them alive and free except his plan. And the idea seemed very feeble in the light of day.
Even so, Pablo got them up and fed and packed in far less time than Kevin would have imagined possible. When all were ready, they joined the others walking the Refugee Trail.
An hour later, they joined the main route linking Charlo
tte to points south. The highway had once been two broad asphalt rivers separated by a grassy divide. Now the eastern road was the only one still officially in use. Motorized traffic was light, for fuel remained prohibitively expensive and parts were scarce. More refugees joined them here, fleeing Charlotte and the militia. Kevin spotted a bus heading south from the same terminal where Caleb and Zeke and Hester had departed. There were also a few trucks and official vehicles, but not many, for they soon would be entering the disputed boundary zone.
Charlotte angrily objected to Atlanta joining with Greenville. The region they were now entering had become taut with coming conflict. Even now, on a fresh early summer morning, with not a cloud in the sky or a breath of wind, Kevin could smell the stench of cordite that had not yet been ignited.
After another ten miles or so, most refugees left the main highway, taking a secondary road that aimed them straight south. Kevin explained this to Carla and Pablo as they walked. His training had not included much hard intelligence on what went on south of Atlanta. But some of his fellow deputies, especially those assigned to the southern patrols, talked of little else.
“Five years after the Great Crash,” Kevin said, “a sickness spread out from three of the cities south of Atlanta.”
“I heard it was the same year as the Crash,” Carla said. “And five cities.”
Kevin shrugged. From this distance of so many miles and years, it hardly mattered. “They had some name for it, I forget what it was.”
“A bacterial infection,” Carla supplied. “A strain resistant to antibiotics.”
“So maybe you should tell the story.”
She shook her head. “I read it in a book. You’ve seen the aftermath.”
Pablo said, “For the rest of us uneducated folk, somebody tell us the rest.”
Kevin glanced back to find the group clustered in close, listening. He went on, “The way I heard it, the sickness spread like wildfire.”
“The Great Plague, it was called back then,” Carla said.
