Exodia (22 page)

“
Mr. Executive President,”
the first one says with a bow, “we have seen his trick and we can
do the same. In any lake or river. A simple trick.”

Truslow smirks. “Of course. That’s what
I believed.” He raises his hand and sweeps it in our direction and
addresses the crowd. “Do you really want to follow this man who
calls himself Bram O’Shea, but is really Dalton Battista?” I follow
his gaze and see my mother, the woman I thought was my mother,
standing enraptured by Truslow, her hands clasped at her breast,
her eyes fixed on him. I know her awful truth in an instant. The
only good thing she ever did was to save me from the mandate. She’s
his.

“
You think you want to
follow him to the desert, but he will only lead you to a wandering
starvation. Death.” He jabs a finger at a tall man, an old woman, a
young boy, Barrett, Lydia, “You and you and you, all of you, you’re
fools. You can have so much more here in Exodia. What can
he
do for you?”

I hand the weapon to Harmon and take a
step, rest my eyes on Lydia, and struggle for the words and the
breath to speak them. This strange battle surges back and forth. My
momentary success has been quelled by the intimidating stance of
his soldiers. I bow to Truslow. “Mr. Executive President, please,
you have to let us go. Things far worse than bloody water will
plague Exodia if you don’t let us all leave.” My groveling voice
shames me.

I see Jamie. He comes up behind his
father and whispers in his ear. They share a wicked laugh. Father
nods at son and Jamie turns to a soldier, gives him a command, and
he takes aim at the crowd. A single burst of a nano-gun and a dozen
people fall. I don’t see Lydia. My heart hammers fast. Please not
Lydia. The screams, the panic, the pounding feet blur before me.
Harmon grabs my elbow, points. I see Barrett pulling Lydia up the
hill; he’d heard Jamie’s soft words and escaped with
her.

The four robed men clap their hands and
praise Truslow. A soldier takes the rod from Harmon and pushes him
to the ground. Another one shoves me and we’re made to bow low
until all the people have left. I expect a bullet, but we’re pushed
to our feet, forced to step over bodies, and marched back to our
cell.

* * *

We’ve served seven more days in this
prison. The guards have been generous with our food and drink. I
suspect there have been bribes paid and that I must thank someone
someday. Harmon thinks it’s Mira who’s paying, but I have other
suspicions.

Our heads are stubbly with a week’s
growth of hair and beard to scratch at. We have nothing to do but
talk.

I have endless questions about our
parents.

“
Yes,” he says for the
umpteenth time, “they were west coasters and exposed to the
radiation for quite a while. They knew the dangers of passing the
mutated genes on, but there were no adverse symptoms at first.
Mother didn’t believe Mira or I suffered any consequences.” He
laughs as he adds something new, “Mira is a tireless dancer. Pretty
quirky gemfry ability, don’t you think?”

I nod and smile and scratch my chin.
“And you’re sure you don’t have anything other than enhanced
strength? No visions? Prophecies?”

“
Nope. And no special
hearing or eagle eye sight or sense of smell. Thank goodness for
that ’cause you really stink.”

“
You’re no flower either,” I
say. “What about words? You aren’t afraid to make a
speech.”

“
Yeah, I can vocalize in the
vernacular,” he chuckles, “and address any group of men. Blues,
Reds, leaders, laborers. No fear. But they don’t listen to me like
they listen to you. You have the gift.”

I wobble my head left and right. He
must be kidding. But now I know some of my gemfry gifts: the
anagrams and prophecies, the superior hearing, and the mind-reading
when I touch someone.

Harmon asks me about my feelings for
Kassandra. And about Lydia. I stumble through my prickly answers.
He expresses more than just a little prejudice against Lydia having
darker skin, says he’s glad I chose a blond to marry. I feel
uncomfortable, but I say nothing.

Harmon has another question for me and
I’m glad for the change of subject. “Have you ever heard of the
Mourners?"

I shake my head no, though something
niggles at my memory. I expect him to tell me of some group of
gemfries with a sad or deadly gift, but we’re
interrupted.

Four guards march loudly down the
corridor and we rise. The first guard is holding the metal staff
gingerly at its center.

“
Come with us. The Executive
President insists that you reverse the curse on the river. He will
listen to your demands again, at the river.”

This time we’re taken in a truck and
there are no crowds of people to observe the meeting. I’ve no idea
if we can purify the water. I see dozens of holes dug everywhere. I
wonder if the people have been digging for clean water. It makes me
feel guilty.

Jamie peers at me from his father’s
side. There’s no warmth in his gaze. He seems much, much older. In
hushed tones they discuss their plan, but I hear it all. Truslow
holds too much trust in superstitions. Gruffly he acknowledges our
presence and takes the metal rod from the guard and waves it over
the river’s edge.

“
Fix it. Clean it up, but
I’ll never let your people go for their silly festival.”

I reach for the staff and hand it to
Harmon.

“
No,” I say and mean it.
“Let the Reds go. Three days. If you refuse to let them go, I’ll
plague all of Exodia with rats. The rats will come into the
capitol, nip at your heels, sink their teeth into your flesh. They
will find their way into people’s houses and eat their food, piss
on their beds, and bite them day and night. They will not leave
until you let us go.”

Truslow’s howling laughter is
unnerving. I nod at Harmon and he lifts the rod and holds it out
stiffly. He squeezes the second section and the rod emits a high
pitched sound. I wince, but Jamie, Harmon, the guards and Truslow
seem unaffected.

Truslow dips his hand in the brackish
water and shakes gray drops away. “Well? I’m waiting.” His tone is
as reasonable as it is icy.

But the water’s not going back to its
crystal state. And now the rats are coming. I can hear their
squeaks, the rustle of their feet on leaves.

I repeat, “Let the Reds go.”

Truslow smirks and shakes his head.
That half-smile quickly morphs into a frown and a look of fear.
Rats come into sight, emerging from the woods, appearing on the
streets, swimming up the river, materializing all around us. I
stand as still as Harmon. The guards run, surround their leader and
his son, and race them away. Dozens of rats swarm after their
vehicle.

A single rat stalks us. I raise my hand
and hold the staff along with my brother. The rodent gives a
shudder, turns and heads for the slum. His tail is bent to the
left.

His tail is broken.
Harks nobilities.

“
Harmon,” I lower my hand
and he sets the end of the staff on the ground, “is there Blue
blood in our veins?”

* * *

The third time Gresham’s cries woke
Lydia in the night she gave up trying to sleep. She dressed,
grabbed her backpack, sneaked out of the house, and headed for the
shack where Barrett lived with his father. She stood in the street
and spoke his name softly, knowing he would hear her, and join her
in the early morning fog. The door creaked open and Barrett came
out. He bent down and plucked at the leaves of some wintergreen
plants, popped them in his mouth and began chewing them as he
walked up to Lydia.

“
What’s going on?” he said.
“Something I don’t know about?”

“
Not really. Couldn’t sleep.
Thought maybe we could check out one of the internments.” Lydia
hoped he knew this was her way of saying sorry.

He spit out the leaves and said, “You
mean look for the girls’ father.”

Lydia nodded. She could always count on
Bear to be on the same wave length. “Teague’s got that kid from the
school apartments working the garbage detail there. He could help
us find Raul Luna.”

“
Sun’ll be up in a couple of
hours. We better hurry. Let me get my pack.”

* * *

They ran cautiously until they came out
of the fog, then they sped up although the starlight was barely
enough to see by. A block away from the fences they stripped off
their packs and took a minute to pull out the necessary tools
they’d need and review the plan they had kicked to the back burner
a week ago. Piece of cake for two young rebels who’d done something
like this twice before.

Barrett left Lydia to set up the
diversion while he jogged around the perimeter, listening, mentally
cataloging sounds, and watching for guards. When he finished his
sweep he gave her the bad news.

“
It’s not happening,
Lydia.”

“
What? Why not?”

“
Too many guards, too much
going on. They already have everyone up. They’re taking them to dig
wells.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Dalton’s fault, I guess, for
contaminating the river.”

Lydia let his remark slide. “I really
want Kassandra and Katie and that baby gone.”

“
I thought you liked the
baby.”

She rolled her eyes. She did like the
baby. It was Dalton’s, after all. Tiny and precious and nearly as
bald as his father now was. She thought she’d die of emotional
overload every time she was asked to hold him.

“
The baby’s cute,” she said,
“but–” She chanced a cautious glance at Bear in the low light. He
couldn’t possibly understand. He touched her hand. Lightly. Maybe
he did understand.

The rumble of a garage door drew their
attention. The rolling metal door was behind the second fence. A
garbage truck eased out. The huge door lumbered closed and at the
last moment a dark figure rolled slowly beneath and shuffled onto
the back of the truck.

“
Looks like somebody has an
escape plan already.”

“
What do you think the odds
could be that it would be their father?” Lydia rubbed at the back
of her hand. “Sounded like all the Lunas had special gemfry
attributes. Maybe he read our minds.”

“
Whoever it is, let’s give
him an escort. We can come up with a Plan B later. Maybe go
wherever they’re digging wells. Find this Luna guy.”

Lydia was too well trained to sigh or
argue or balk. She’d asked Bear to come with her, but, as in
anything they did for the cause, he had the final say.

They picked up their packs and
zigzagged up the street and around the corner. The garbage truck
headed that way after it cleared the final gate. When it passed
them, well out of sight of the compound, they were ready to run
alongside and jump on. But before they had a chance the truck
grumbled to a halt and their friend jumped from the driver’s seat
onto the road. He spotted Barrett and Lydia and waved them
over.

“
Someone’s on my truck. Did
you plan this?” His face was pinched, his words fast and
hard.

“
No,” Lydia said, “but we’ll
help get him away.”

“
You shouldn’t have stopped
here,” Barrett hissed. “You’re not far enough away.” He leaped up
on the side board and knocked on the metal. “Hey, jump out. Come
on.”

A man, filthy and ragged, swung a leg
over the top and slid clumsily down to the ground.

“
Come with us,” Lydia said.
She didn’t wait for a response. The man followed her up a side
street, Barrett close behind. The garbage truck’s gears screeched
and the truck lurched on in the other direction.

As they went deeper into the slum the
man began to slow his pace and cough. Barrett cued Lydia to
stop.

“
Time for some
introductions,” Barrett said. “She’s Lydia. I’m Bear.”

The man bent over and huffed. Barrett
yanked the man’s sleeve up. Even in the dark morning he could tell
there was no tattoo at all.

“
I’m a priest,” he said as
he coughed again, straightened, and wiped his mouth. “The stars…”
he pointed, “it was a good night to escape.” He huffed and puffed
some more. “My family … I’m trying to find my family. We got
separated.”

Lydia and Barrett exchanged a glance
punctuated by the distant bark of a wild dog.

“
Are you Mr.
Luna?”

His eyes widened. “I am.”

* * *

“
What do you mean?” Harmon
says as we walk up the river bank. “Like Blue blood as in royalty?”
He laughs. “O’Shea isn’t exactly the most popular name in the Irish
myths and legends I’ve heard. Which are few and far between.
Except, of course, for the song of Bram O’Shea.”

I want to groan at the thought of all
the times I’d heard that song and didn’t understand. “I found a
ledger in my grandfa–, in Bryer Battista’s archive. I tore out some
pages. There’s mention of someone–I’m beginning to think it’s
me–who is or was noble.”

I picture the anagram
harks nobilities
and how
in the ledger pages it said
for he is
noble
.