Out of Exodia (8 page)

The table set before them
became a snare, retribution, and a trap.

The eyes of their enemies
were darkened so they could see no more and their backs were bent
forever.

DAWN HAS PASSED and we’re still a
sluggish mob struggling to get underway. It’s mid-morning and only
half the Reds have moved out, their carts and sleds a little fuller
with the crazy prizes they’ve pillaged from this lodge—store signs,
hangers, cupboard drawers.

I hear Mira ask her suitor, Josh, why
people are taking such useless souvenirs.

“
Useless?” Josh says.
“Hardly. That small metal sign will be used as a plate. And look at
this. I unscrewed this metal tube from a clothes rack. It’s long
enough to use as a walking stick, but it’ll come in handy as a
spear. See? The end is sharp.” He smiles at her and she smiles
back. It’s hardly something to smile about, but they’re searching
for a way to flirt in this impossible circumstance. I hate to
interrupt.

“
Josh? Are there more of
those?”

“
Hundreds.”

“
Can you take your buddies
and get them all? Hand them out to those who haven’t left yet. As
weapons.”

“
Yeah, no problem. Bullets
are precious. Swords and spears could save the day.” He gives me a
little salute. I like him. He’s smart and obedient and if his
cohorts are as stalwart as he seems, I think we’ll have an even
bigger advantage if Lydia’s abductors cut us off or we run into
another unfriendly settlement.

* * *

Hundreds of people ranged out across
the wider path once they left the surrounds of the mall having
channeled themselves through the narrow exits. Harmon, Mira, Josh,
and a team of young men with bodies like warriors moved quickly
into the lead. When he was far enough ahead, Bram set his bags down
and held the rod out over the heads of Josh’s comrades. As they
passed, each man tapped the rod with the sharp end of his imitation
spear. Sparks of red, blue, and green shot outward to the amusement
and cheers of the children.

Their shouts did much to drown out the
grumblings of the older folks who’d hoped to make a city centered
at the twelve springs mall. Bram ignored the complaints, well used
to the grumblings, and as soon as all of the sword-wielding men
ranged outward he shouldered his bags and helped Lydia with her
things. They advanced around the various clusters of Reds and made
their way to Malcolm.

“
Hey, Malcolm.”

“
Hey, Bram, do you hear
it?”

Bram and Lydia fell into step with the
older man. Lydia’s eyes were drawn to the amazing sight of the
hovering cloud in front of them, but Bram stared at the machine and
listened for the hum to change into discernible words.

“
Must not be working
today,” Bram sounded disappointed.

Malcolm frowned. “’Course it’s working.
Can’t you hear the hum?”

“
That’s what I mean. I only
hear the hum.”

Malcolm looked to Lydia, shrugged his
shoulders, then tapped the box a couple of times. He shooed away
some children who were running circles around them. Bram saw the
same little girl who had told him to listen the first time when
he’d deciphered the weird phrase on the box and heard the voice of
God.

More than a small stab of anxiety
caused Bram to doubt himself. The hum continued as they passed
through an abandoned town, lumbered down a country road, and came
upon a desolate ruin: a long deserted airport.

* * *

The cloud divides into
dozens of smaller ones. They turn blood red, coagulating into clots
low in the sky, then evaporate in an instant. The humming snaps
off. I hear the voice, only one word at first:
table
. There’s a shivering breath
and then I hear
table land
and finally
fight here,
you will raise the rod and win.

“
Fight here?” I say that
aloud and Lydia and Malcolm both ask me what I mean. “Wait.” I turn
and look around, spot Harmon and jog over to him.

“
I think we have a
problem.”

He looks away from me and scans the
Reds for signs of fights.

“
No, Harmon, not them. The
people that held Lydia. They’re coming to fight us
here.”

“
What? It’s been a
week.”

I point to the air traffic control
tower. There’s been no traffic to control in decades, but still it
stands like a colossal guard many stories high giving a circular
view of where we’ve come from and where we’re going.

“
Let’s go up there and
look.”

Harmon trusts me. We head to the tower
and leave our possessions outside, except for the rod. We climb in
through a window and step over the litter that’s scattered on the
floor. Long ago this place had been decorated in a woodsy hunting
theme which now looks hauntingly gruesome with shaggy animal heads
tilted on the walls and broken wooden furniture pushed against the
stairs. We shove aside the dusty wheeled chairs and tables and
ascend the steps.

The room at the top is unexpectedly
clean. The chairs are gone; their empty stalls are clear of debris
and consoles hold nothing more than screens and some kind of thick
black wires, curly at one end and bowed in an arc at the other end
with round protuberances. Harmon lifts one up and wonders aloud if
it’s a communication device. I look out the windows that, though
filthy, are all still unbroken. We have an astonishing view in
every direction. Some runways are bare, others are strewn with
propellers, small plane noses and tails, and large wings from jets
whose bodies were wheeled off to use as cabins. I see one battered
fuselage that didn’t get towed away. It blocks a gateway. A ripple
of movement shines off its windows. I prop the rod against a
console and look more sharply.

“
There. See?”

Harmon spins to peer out to the
south.

“
And there.”

He jerks in equal surprise at the
northern view. “Two enemies?”

“
No. The same enemy.
Divided. See their garments? Same colors.”

The horses and men to the north are
stationary, planted directly in our path, ready to mow us down when
we leave the flat ground. The southern army approaches steadily,
swarming east and west as they advance, as if they intend to round
us up like sheep and herd us toward a slaughter.

Directly below us the Reds are swelling
across the runways completely unaware of the disaster that will
strike from every side. I hear the crowd’s usual noise: the buzz of
talking, the clunks and scrapes of sleds and carts being pulled
behind huffing travelers. But there is also a low hum.

“
I expect you’ll need
this.” It’s Malcolm. He’s followed us up into the tower, toting his
machine like a precious babe. The hum stops; the fresh, white cloud
the machine controls hangs low, just above the heads of those in
the lead, then it descends further presenting a fog through which
they fear to pass.

“
We have to fight.” I grab
the amplifying device that Malcolm offers and swallow hard. One
word from my dry mouth and the people below jump back. Another word
and they look to the cloud and then toward the tower, see me, and
settle down, only to rile when I tell them we must fight an enemy
they cannot see.

“
They’re moving!” Harmon’s
arm reaches north indicating the impending attack.

For just an instant the hum
abates and I hear those words again:
raise
the rod and win
. It’s God’s voice, though
others might claim it’s Ronel’s.

Harmon repeats his panicked claim and
adds, “Are these those underground dwellers?”

I have no idea who they are, though I
suspect he’s dead on. I stare unseeing until the words I heard from
the machine rearrange themselves to answer Harmon in a distorted
puzzle. “Risen town head raid.”

He scowls at me and waves his hand in
front of my face. “Risen town? What? This is more than a raid.
Listen!”

The first sounds of gunfire precede
horrifying screams. My head clears and my vision sharpens. The Reds
under the cloud drop their things and run toward the tower. The
people who lagged behind now race forward. I stand perfectly still.
A chilling silence deafens my ears. It’s followed by a lightning
strike so profound that it must turn everyone’s hearing to stone.
When the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear erratic shots. Our
people are wasting their ammunition.

“
Put your backs to the
tower,” I shout into the amplifier. I search below for Lydia. She
rushes her mother toward the base of the tower.

The enemies, some running on foot,
others galloping, cross the landing fields firing precious bullets
to start the slaughter. They close in and the fighting changes.
It’s a primitive struggle, with knives and bats in the hands of the
attackers and faux swords and iron pans the only resistance from
the Reds since they’ve no time to reload. I grab the rod, raise it
high, and expect that it will help somehow. All around below the
scraggly Reds fight the darker, taller enemies while I keep my eyes
trained on Lydia, trusting that she’ll survive this terror. She
finds a weapon and brandishes it to hold off a man who defects her
lunges with ease. He yanks her forward and she loses her balance,
falls hard to the ground, and flails. Vapors gather around her,
swirl and thicken, until they drift upward obscuring her. Yet no
pang of fear disturbs my strange peace.

A single spark leaps from Malcolm’s
machine to the end of my rod and makes the rod vibrate in my hand.
Below, those whose sword-like shafts were poached from the mall
swing them like bats, cracking heads, or thrust them at unshielded
bellies, drawing outraged fury along with blood. The battle turns
in our favor.

Malcolm shoves the machine into a
cubbyhole under one of the consoles and shouts that he’ll run down
to pull the children to safety through the broken windows. Harmon
stands rigid behind me looking south.

“
We should fight. Come on,”
he snarls. “Bring the rod. We can blow up that whole southern
flank.”

He has a good idea. I
haven’t forgotten what this rod can do. I lower it, but something
flits before my eyes—those letters again:
raise the rod and win
. It’s a
command. I hesitate, staring at my brother’s chest.

“
Hey … Bram.” He waves his
hand before my eyes again, impatient, angry. “Let’s go.” The force
of his words churns the air around me. I see him silhouetted in a
shaft of softened light. His face is hidden behind his wagging
hand.

There is thunder now, punching like a
black and silver fist. It covers the screams at first then
something changes. My ears clog; indistinct noises reverberate.
Harmon tries to grab the rod from me, but I hold it firmly in the
middle.

“
No! Look.” Riderless
horses are prancing about. The outer edges of the siege are
littered with wounded bodies—of our friends, of our enemies—but the
momentary advantage we had now fades. I see Red after Red
succumbing to the brutal acts of violence, falling beneath their
opponents’ feet, injured and ready to surrender.

“
We’re losing,” Harmon
yells, no doubt angry at my indecision.

I shake my head. “Stay with me. Help
me.” I can’t explain this to him so I raise the rod and point. The
very men we saw yielding to the enemies’ greater strength regain
their footing, fight harder, stab and thrust and lunge against
their adversaries. “I have to keep the rod high.”

I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy, but he
stays. I spot Lydia again. She no longer has a weapon. Josh throws
her his metal pole. I watch her as she holds off a warrior with the
sharper end of the pole, circles him, prods and thrusts and shocks
him with the sparking point.

Josh tackles the more aggressive men.
He kills with his bare hands, breaking their necks.

“
Raise it higher,” Harmon
instructs.

We both watch as Lydia’s weapon finds
the warrior’s throat and a quick jab rips his jugular.

I have the rod as high as I can get it
and the battles below us rage hotter and faster. Ghostly images of
death flicker beneath the foggy glow of the cloud. A wind blows
hard, snapping trousers against legs, swirling dust into faces, and
summoning the rain.

* * *

Harmon braced Bram’s arm with his own
so the heavy rod could remain at its highest elevation. Outside the
sky darkened and the rains fell like shards of glass. The tip of
the rod produced a radiance of golden light that made the tower
shine like a lighthouse. Those below who held the metal swords felt
them grow warm; the heat built to a scorching laser-like sting at
their ends that forced the enemy to pull back. The older Reds, who
now had time to reload their guns, took judicious aim.

Josh’s friends, Blake and
Branson and Herb, and a hundred other strong young men pushed the
cave-dwellers to the edge of the tarmac, fighting hand to hand and
defeating the vicious foe until the rain passed and their
sword-like weapons began to cool. As the sky lightened Herb looked
back toward the tower and saw the ethereal outline of Bram’s body
being crutched by his brother. The famous rod was tipping downward.
He saw, too, at the base of the tower, Lydia,
Jenny
, and other women defending the
windowed entrance to the children’s safe spot. Herb, soaked with
rain and sweat, ran toward them, aware that something about the
battle had changed again.