Exodia (10 page)

He was saved from the snare
and the pestilence. He walked the land of the wild beast and
trampled snakes along the way.

BEING TALLER THAN those around me,
being trained in N.A. combat, being guarded by soldiers, being the
grandson of the Executive President, all that, has blinded me to
how absolutely useless, naive, and stupid I am. I’ve kept the sun
to my left side as much as possible for the last four or five
hours, but I wonder if I’m going in circles.

I left the woodsy paths a while back
and started following an old interstate highway, one of the
magnetized ones with a buried network of high tech mags that kept
the cars of the fifties and sixties floating safely a couple of
feet above the ground until their drivers turned onto the surface
streets and used their wheels again. Those same cars now repurpose
themselves as tiny homes in the slum or roll down the streets if
someone has kept them running, refitted them for bio-fuel, or paid
the black market prices for gas or solar panels. I have only seen
four this afternoon, all going south, and none of them floated, but
each one sped up to bump crazily over the grassy way when they saw
me, as if I could lunge across the median and yank their doors
open. I laugh to myself and think that I’ll do just that if one
comes up my lane.

I’m pretty tired. Hungry, too. An hour
ago I stopped and drank the stew broth and now I’m trying one of
the cakey bars that Lydia packed for me. I wonder how she and
Barrett knew to plan for my escape.

I finish the bar and keep on
walking.

Before the Suppression there were over
seven hundred million people on our continent. Everywhere I’ve been
with my mother and grandfather I’ve seen the evidence. So many
buildings, factories, and stores. Empty. Ruined. Whole cities
abandoned. My tutor says the government claims the population has
fallen to a tenth of what it was, though he believes they can’t
really know that.

A growing rumble makes me quicken my
pace. I cut across the roadside and up an exit toward a pair of
buildings. The sky darkens and the thunder chases me toward an
unhinged door. I check for sounds before I enter, see puddles on
the floor, and decide to check the other building. It’s a café–was
a cafe. I kick the door open, knife ready, and shout, “Coming
in!”

The place is quiet. The tables and
chairs are neatly stacked, but covered with dirt and grime. There
are mouse droppings everywhere. The storm begins for real with a
couple of sharp cracks. The rain starts, but the roof of the cafe
appears better than the other building’s.

The wind picks up and I close the door.
I explore my little sanctuary and find a broom, some towels, and a
small supply of irradiated chicken stashed in a utensils drawer. I
read the labels and determine that they are within the forty year
expiration date. I wonder if anyone ever tested that theory. I pack
the four packages into my bags.

I take the broom and towels and clean a
space near the window, put a chair there, and watch the storm pass.
When it doesn’t let up after a while I clean off four more chairs
and line them up. It’s not entirely uncomfortable to lie across
them. The last towel, rolled up, makes an adequate
pillow.

I dream of Lydia. I hear jarring cracks
as a capitol guard whips Barrett over and over. And then he whips
Lydia and Jamie and finally, he whips me.

Another dream follows with thunderous
pounding. I hear my grandfather’s fist beating on my mother’s
bedroom door. She lets him in and there is nothing I can do because
in my dream, and in my memory, I’m only five.

I awake and it’s perfectly still
outside. I walk around looking out each window in turn. I hear
something that stirs every cautious bone in my body.

Lions. I see them in the heavy brush
and knee-high grasses that grow beside the road. A whole pride. At
least seven, maybe more if they are spread out hunting. City zoos
no longer exist; these animals have had a few generations to roam
wild. I wonder if they have any gemfry effects. Of course they
must. Genetic mutations from radiation exposure would have similar
consequences in the animal world. A certain wild dog comes to
mind.

I wait a lingering hour and pray the
rain hides my scent.

When the storm is at last replaced with
the slanted rays of late afternoon sunshine I feel less anxious.
The cafe’s interior has brightened, too, and I give it a final
search before venturing out. There’s a map on the back of the door.
I’m five miles from the pipeline that Carter spoke of, the place
where I can catch a ride on a truck. Maybe.

I see something else on the map. A
strange symbol. I check the map’s legend and feel a twinge of
excitement. If I angle off to the east I’m also five miles from
Usala’s Rock. I tear the map down, but it crumbles in my hands like
dry cake. No matter. I will find Usala’s Rock.

I step outside and scan the grasses,
the road, and even the trees for signs of a tawny yellow coat or
shaggy mane. If Barrett were here he’d sniff the air. I take in as
much air through my nose as I can, but I have no idea what a lion
smells like and all I sense is the clean scent of rain-dampened
earth. I don’t believe I’d have a chance in a million against a
pride of lions, but somehow I’m not afraid. The pull of my own
prophetic anagram is greater than my fear of wild animals. I slog
through the mud and trek up the old roads toward Usala’s
Rock.

* * *

It is nearly dark when I see the
monument. I hear voices as well. There’s a water pump, a hand
powered one, and several people are filling containers. I can’t see
their tattoos. When they finish and leave I take a turn at the
fresh water, fill my stomach and my container. I move beyond the
pump and stare at Usala’s Rock. It’s not very impressive. The rock
itself is hardly more than a boulder, easily climbed, but the
monument behind it rises maybe twenty feet, slick and black and
impossible to climb. I set my bags down at the base of the rock and
do what I must: Dalton Battista, sit on Usala’s Rock.

I can see the remains of decades of
neglect–rundown fences, piles of garbage, and swaths of wild
undergrowth. The monument sits disregarded, forgotten, perhaps
contaminated, but the path to the well looks frequently used and
recently trampled.

I don’t know if I expect some bolt of
lightning or a prophetic vision, but I hear the most beautiful
voice singing that same song I’ve heard the last few days. I stay
frozen and watch as a blond girl leads a couple dozen sheep to the
well, singing her song, smiling, coaxing the flock along with a
primitive shepherd’s staff. She pumps out water by the gallon,
letting it flow down the stones until it puddles in a concrete well
that the sheep crowd around.

I watch. I listen. I expect something
momentous to happen. Maybe God will speak from Heaven and forgive
me of my murder … murders.

There’s harmony in the song now. One by
one, six more girls come until there are seven blonds guarding
maybe a hundred sheep. I sit and watch. The song ends and the
girls, sisters most likely, become anxious and worried. They take
turns at the pump, trying hard to make the water flow faster,
glancing around in troubled anticipation of something. They ignore
me, but stay on guard.

I see the gang before they
do.

* * *

One of the ways my grandfather has
succeeded in staying in power is to make unlawful the gathering of
more than six men in any one place. Six men constitute a gang that
can work on construction, play a little three on three, line up for
water or food, but seven men together, or ten or twenty, is a
resistance that needs to be crushed. I’ve seen it happen through my
mother’s fingers.

Four years ago, the last time I had
been allowed on an Executive Policy Tour, we had driven all day in
a caravan of military troops to reach the southern border of the
Chicago ruins. Our soldiers acted out the Executive President’s
order time after time while my mother held her hand over my
eyes.

I would have presumed that the four
young men now approaching the well were less harmful than the men I
saw executed when I was twelve, but the nervous behavior of the
sisters can only mean these brutes are dangerous.

I slip off the rock and dig through my
bags. I have the knife, the Stun-n-Run gun, a package of what I
assume is Vinn’s homemade explosives, and a Nano-gun. The Nano-gun
is no doubt stolen and I imagine Barrett sneaking in some place
where they think he’s just a pesky fruit thief and running out with
oranges and guns. This gun holds five thousand rounds of
nano-bullets, if it’s fully loaded. I thumb open the load-lock and
see it’s at 22%. That’s still impressive. I could take out this
gang and all the sheep five times over.

I pocket the Nano-gun, abandon my bags,
and move closer to the well.

I’m overwhelmed by the smell of the
sheep as several begin to encircle me. Their coats are shaggy and
their droopy-eared faces and pathetic bleating add to the repulsive
impression.

“
Hi,” I say to the girls who
are working together to pump the water. One has her hair in long
braids and they whip around her neck as she jumps to see who
speaks. The other, the smallest of the seven, lets go of the pump
handle. They both step aside and the faucet instantly slows to a
trickle. The sheep fuss around my knees. I try to step out of the
way and I must look terrified or ridiculous because the girls begin
to laugh.

“
Don’t be afraid. They’re
just sheep,” the smaller girl says. “Look, Araceli, he’s scared of
lambs.”

The oldest sister, the one that sang
first, runs up, hardly gives me a glance, and leans into her
sisters.

“
Hurry,” she says. “They’re
coming.” The fear and anxiety are obvious.

“
But all the sheep haven’t
had a chance to drink yet. Flor and I weren’t finished pumping,”
Araceli, the girl with braids, says.

“
There are seven of us,” her
little sister snaps. “We were here first. We can fight them
off.”

I can’t help letting out an easy laugh.
The little one, Flor, is feisty. And innocent. Her oldest sister
acknowledges my presence with a harsh look.

“
Are you one of them?” she
takes a couple of steps back grabbing her sisters’ arms.

I shake my head no and follow her eyes
to the advancing threat. All four boys are probably eighteen or
nineteen, tall like me. Reds, no doubt. They’re carrying walking
sticks, but helping them walk is not their intended purpose. They
reach the outer edge of the flock and begin to hit at the sheep,
knocking their flanks as if they were pebbles to be swept
aside.

“
Stop that!” Flor says. She
sounds fierce in her protection of the sheep, but her older sister
is equally passionate in protecting her sibling. She pushes her
into the other girl’s arms.

“
Take her and run,” she
orders.

Araceli grabs Flor’s hand, but asks,
“What about the sheep, Kassandra? What are—”

“
Go!” Kassandra yells. “And
take Sana, too. Katie and the twins will help me deal with
this.”

“
I can help,” I say. I think
of several smart ways to explain who I am and the authority I have
at my disposal. But I’m a fugitive. The only authority I have I
draw slowly out of my pocket. The Nano-gun doesn’t impress her.
It’s the size of a large potato if a potato had a flip down
handle-grip. If she’s never seen one before she has no idea of its
power. Fear, excitement, guilt and remorse all flood my
veins.

She, this Kassandra, stares at me,
looks me up and down, and whistles. It’s a sharp, manly sound that
pierces the air and doubles the tension.

“
Get these stupid sheep
outta here!” The biggest of the four thugs yells this command and
follows it with a stream of obscenities. The other three chime in
with threats of their own as they push through the flock and come
up to the pump.

Kassandra’s hands have found her hips
and her whistle has brought three sisters to her side. Katie, I
assume, and the twins.

“
What did I say, bitches?
Get these stinkin’ animals outta here.” He waves his stick at all
the girls. Araceli and Flor are still nearby, afraid to
run.

It crosses my mind that today’s earlier
rainstorm is up for a repeat performance since the sky seems to
darken. But instead of ominous weather it is only the natural
darkening as the sun gets ready to set. Four large guys loom before
us with faces that pucker into menacing expressions.

“
What are you lookin’ at?”
the second one barks.

I carefully pull the slide bar back on
the Nano-gun as I point it at the gang. I think of a thousand wise
cracks to put them in their place, but my mouth is dry. I tell
myself to shoot low. I am not a killer, not a cold-blooded killer,
anyway.

“
It’s a Nano-gun,” one of
them says, his voice as quiet and intense as an executive
presidential order. “Let’s leave.”

Definitely that is good advice. I want
to encourage them to turn, but still my mouth stays clamped shut.
It’s that little flower of a girl who speaks for me. She yells,
“Yeah, go on, before our brother shoots you.”