Daybreak Zero (19 page)

THE NEXT DAY. IN AND AROUND THE FORMER TERRE HAUTE, INDIANA. 5:30 AM EST. THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 2025.

They were trying to confuse him, but they couldn’t hide the Wabash or the sun; Steve Ecco knew he was going upstream near the river. Either they didn’t realize how many clues they’d let slip, or they didn’t care that much.

Now it was a party of at least twenty people; three of them, he’d pegged as “officers,” though he heard no titles used—a woman and two men who took turns deciding things and giving orders. Another seven he’d designated as “guards,” who followed the orders of the officers and gave orders to all of the rest. The numerous remainder must be slaves; they only received orders and spoke only when told to.

Well, if I do escape, I can report that much, anyway.

At dawn of the first day of his captivity, as gray light began to leak in around his blindfold, he was in a stretch where the road or trail was jammed with obstacles. He tried running headlong, hoping to hit something and get a concussion or a broken neck, or perhaps fall into water and drown. After he’d lost count of his collisions with trees and was staggering, hoping that the next tree or the one after might put him out, they unblindfolded him, braced him up, and forced the bar between his elbows and back again. For the next hour or more they left the blindfold off but again used the spar to push him onward, until the road was clear of felled trees and broken automobiles.

During that brief period of vision, in the brightening gray light, he saw a WELCOME TO PRAIRIETON sign, and another sign for Indiana 63. So he was just south of Terre Haute, close to the east side of the river; they were running him across the bend where the Illinois-Indiana state line begins to follow the Wabash.

Later, when the sun was full up, but still to his right, the road was mostly clear again, and shamefully, he agreed not to make them use the spar, so they re-blindfolded him. A while after that, they ran him down to the river and gave him a cup of water.

Lukewarm river water was wonderful. The next cup of water had been thoroughly dosed with whiskey; they followed that up with some lukewarm soup, probably beef vegetable out of a can, mixed with more whiskey, and then another draft of unspiked water.

When they shoved him into the bottom of the boat, lying on his back in the puddled water was only uncomfortable for a moment before exhaustion, whiskey, and the relief of the food and water sent him off to sleep. Twice he half-awakened when guards screamed at the slaves.

They dragged him out of the boat at about noon, to judge by the feel of the sun. As they pushed him to run again, he noted they were still going upstream, still on their side of the Wabash.

At that mountain man convention I went to they said a keelboat was lucky to make fifteen miles a day upstream, so since that was maybe a third of a day, they probably just hauled me through Terre Haute. Does that mean there are good guys in the wreckage, for me to look for if I escape? Or was it just too hard to run a blindfolded guy through a smashed ruin that size?

He ran for much of the afternoon, still north along the Wabash, very close to the border. This forced run had shredded his feet and ankles, and burned up his reserves; he’d need a
long
head start to get away from them, now.

With the sun still high in the sky, they stopped so a fresh party of officers, guards, and slaves could take over. It was a longer stop; the replacement party, while waiting for them, had built a fire, and heated food from cans. They gave him a big bowl of oatmeal laced with rum, more water, and some soup/whiskey mix as well. He fell asleep again, dimly aware that they were carrying him down to another boat.

ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 3 PM EST. THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 2025.

Cameron Nguyen-Peters had chosen Terrell Hall on the former University of Georgia campus for his executive office building for what seemed like good, sensible administrative reasons: it was an administrative building with a few big and many small offices, old enough so that it had plenty of windows for natural light. If he had thought about the front entrance at all, it was only that the protruding, windowed bay over the covered stairs might be a good place for the eventual President of the United States to give a speech.

He had not thought at the time that the chapel, across the quad, faced it directly, so that the two buildings could also be seen as rival positions—let alone in enmity. But back then, the Post Raptural Church hadn’t existed yet, let alone demanded recognition as the First National Church of the United States.

“The best guess we’ve got,” Grayson said, his face tired and strained, “is that there are about seven thousand people in the quad at any one time. Most of them are from outside Athens and some of them walked three days to get here. There’s probably twelve thousand overall, but some of them are always off getting food or catching a nap. There are probably two thousand watchers around the other side of the building, so slipping out quietly is not an option.”

The chanting rose and fell in long, slow waves of a minute or more. “At least in the daytime they don’t need torches for light,” Cam observed, “so they don’t have them right there, to give them ideas.”

“If they want to burn the building in the daytime, they’ll find something.” Grayson shrugged. “And sir, I don’t agree with you about anything, but I don’t think you’re a coward. If you do what I’m suggesting, I know it won’t be because you’re giving in or because you’re afraid.” His small smile was almost a wince. “Though I seriously doubt that you care what I think of you.”

“Well, you might be wrong about
that
,” Cam said. “All right, the country is already torn in half; we can’t have a civil war in the strongest remaining part.” He handed Grayson a short, bulleted list and said, “Here’s what I’m going to promise to do. Is it enough? Will it get the mobs out of the streets and the people back to work? And will it get the Post Raptural preachers to stop enflaming their followers?”

Grayson scanned it and said, “Yes. I think it will. I can sell this to Peet and Whilmire. And sir, again, I don’t think you’re selling out. Changes had to come. It’s a new time in a new country.”

“Yeah, but our oath is to the Constitution of the old country,” Cam said. “Whatever happens to me, General, don’t forget that.”

“I don’t think I ever could, sir. ”

The techs had cobbled together a crude PA system and kept it wiped clean of nanoswarm, though they pointed out that how long it would last was anyone’s guess, and therefore it would be better to speak sooner rather than later. “No reason to delay any further, then.” Cameron moved forward to the mike; there was a squeal of feedback that quieted the crowd, and he began. “My fellow Americans, I have—”

A shot caromed off the windowsill above his head. Cam froze, his mind blank, but Grayson moved forward, stepping between him and the mike. “If you’re going to shoot anybody today,” he said, firmly, “let me request that you shoot me first, so that I will not have failed in my duty to my civilian superiors.”

Silence descended on the crowd. Grayson stepped aside, and Cam advanced to the mike. Forcing himself not to hurry, he read off the points: he would reconstitute the Board, naming enough reverends to it to give it a Post Raptural majority; Army and other federal institutions could, if the local commander preferred, fly the Cross and Eagle banner; the First National Church of the United States was hereby proclaimed the official church, but all other non-subversive, non-seditious religions would be tolerated; the Temporary National Government would seek a restored American sovereignty over the whole territory of the United States, under a restored fully Constitutional authority.

“And finally, please join me in this very short prayer.” He let them fall silent and bow their heads; then he said, “God bless the United States of America, and restore our country to us, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” as Grayson had told him to do. The crowd cheered madly; it was several minutes before, to Cam’s relief, they began to drift out of the quad.

As Cam trudged upstairs to his personal apartment, he felt as if he dragged a huge, invisible cross. A late lunch and a nap might be in order.
What do you do when you’ve lost completely but you can’t just slink under the porch?

At the door to his private apartment, Colonel Salazar was waiting for him. Cam knew the man slightly, as one of the perpetual staffers who inhabit the mid-ranges of any bureaucracy. He was slim, well-muscled, of average height, deeply tanned and black-haired, and other than an immense Saddam Hussein mustache, he had no distinguishing feature anyone could have named. “Sir? There are a couple of things you should sign off on—it’ll just take a moment.”

“Sure, come in,” Cam said. Another minute of delay for the lunch and the nap wouldn’t matter. Probably he’d forgotten to sign some of the pile of executive orders he’d hammered out with Whilmire and Grayson earlier that day.

As soon as Salazar closed the door, he said, “Something you need to know, sir. General Grayson knew that shot was going to hit up above the window. The incident was staged.”

Cam blinked. “Well, that’s consistent with Grayson, and the people around him. Thank you for telling me.”

“Information with the compliments of Heather O’Grainne, sir. If you ever need to communicate with her in a secure channel—”

“I won’t hesitate to contact you,” Cam said. “And my thanks to Heather—”

Salazar saluted and was gone.

As Cam put together a sandwich, and watched the demonstrators pouring out into the streets, celebrating the victory of God and the Constitution (at least as they understood either), he thought,
Well, it’s still total defeat, but it’s not so bad when you don’t feel all alone.

THE NEXT DAY. NEAR THE FORMER TECUMSEH, INDIANA. 3:45 PM EST. FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2025.

They’d kept Ecco running for most of two days, usually blindfolded, getting him drunk and dumping him into boats from time to time. He deduced they were cutting off long bends by running him across them, but only when they could keep him on this side of the border, and for some reason it was important to keep him close to the Wabash.

At mid-afternoon, Ecco vomited on one of the officers, which was the high point of his day. They let him have a whole wonderful sweet quart or so of unlaced water, and sit and rest while a runner went for a boat. He sat, breathed, and took stock; pressing his feet against his bare calves, he could feel even through the soles of his moccasins that his numb feet were swollen and wet; maybe he’d broken some bones under his instep.

If he got free, he wouldn’t be able to run far or fast; at best he might only be able to force them to kill him. His arms had been bound behind his back for most of the time; even with them free, he doubted he’d manage to roll out of a boat to drown, let alone try to swim for it.

As they waited he felt that the slope was steep in front of him, and the smell of water was strong. He went limp and tried rolling down the bank.
Drowning’s gonna feel like shit but
—

Rough hands stopped him; he stayed limp, feigning a faint. A slave woman was beaten for not having kept a grip on him.

“That bank’s pretty steep.” It was the woman officer they called Sunshine. “We’re not supposed to let him see where he is, but it’ll be a lot easier to move him into the boat if he can see.”

Jacob, who seemed to be the CO, grunted. “Let him go down without the blindfold, but put it right back on him.”

They unblindfolded him and walked him down the slope; he saw the water tower for Tecumseh, across the stream. Ecco remembered that the town constable had been assassinated there, and a series of fires had been set; what was left of the population had evacuated westward, with stories about rocks and arrows from nowhere and drumming and singing in the night.

They tied him into the boat, but since they left him sober, he was able to rest and think. Who could have betrayed his mission? Some of the people who had known
couldn’t
be suspects. Not Carol May Kloster or Freddie Pranger, let alone Heather O’Grainne.

Had one of the ex-Daybreakers that they studied at Pueblo reverted to Daybreak, and learned about his mission?

Some spy in Pueblo who just put things together? Their main communication system was having hungry teenagers run notes between desks; what messages might have been intercepted with some smooth talk and a fresh hot pie?

Dr. Yang? Please, not a guy who’d always treated him with the friendly deference that a man of action wants to see from a smart guy . . .
especially if it’s a fake man of action like me,
Ecco thought, bitterly, for the ten thousandth time.

He kept composing the message, with no idea how he could send it:

Going N on L bank Wabash with 3 officers, 5-10 enlisted, many slaves. Need help urgent. Traitor in Pueblo.

He fell asleep in the gently rocking boat, and when he woke again, no light was leaking around his blindfold. Sunshine ordered him to climb out and to run; she had to have three slaves lift him, but after some kicking and slapping, he ran, despite the scalding pain in the balls and heels of his feet, and the wracking ache of breathing through sobs.