The Grand Ballast (36 page)

Skullprute was talking to Bettina. They were
both gazing down the slope of the southern pasture, toward the
surrounding woods. They were looking for entrances and exits. They
were trying to learn this place, so that when they came back for
the liberation they’d be able to move quickly, efficiently. Bode
couldn’t do that. Couldn’t help with the plan. Terror coated him
like filth—if he went to brush it off, it smeared and stank.

He was silent on the ride home, letting the
Liberators’ excited chatter, their self-righteous outrage, wash
over him.

***

The night before the
liberation, a crowd milled on the porch of the saloon. The town was
lit with fires and lamps, and there was music in the air, enough to
drown out the hooting night creatures. Darkenage had out a guitar
and was playing. The Harkvillians danced—painted men lifted and
swung their graying petticoats and women drank and tossed their
glasses high in the air so that reflections of stars riddled them
like bullet holes before they plummeted and cracked on the
ground.

Bode had a flask Finley had
lent him, filled with a spiced liquor so strong it made his eyes
and throat burn. Valen was on the far side of the porch, talking to
Horse Leg and Bettina. Horse Leg’s mechanical hock creaked every
now and then, a sound that cut through the music. Bode tried not to
look too often at Valen.

He doesn’t love
you.

He doesn’t. You can’t
change that.

And yet Valen had sat with
him that night after Darkenage’s performance. Had listened to him
talk about Driscoll. Had made him feel safe.

“
You’re not dancin’,” said
a female voice.

He looked up. Hedda stood
just outside the circle of lantern light in a bra and a long skirt,
her glass scars dark and glinting like frozen rivers. Her large
eyes were outlined heavily in brown. The effect was startling. It
was like looking at a photograph or a painting and feeling conned
into noticing the obvious, when what he wanted was to see the
secrets the artist had hidden. “Don’t feel like it.”

He thought maybe she’d
insist, criticize, or cajole. But she said, “Horse Leg says you’re
going to help with the liberation of the farm.”

He nodded.
Only so Valen will leave with me.

Hedda sat beside him. She
leaned forward and stared into her glass side, using her reflection
to pick between her teeth with a nail. She straightened. “I’ve told
your companion this too. You’re neither of you under any obligation
to help. If we’re caught, things could be bad for you.” She glanced
at him. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your freedom.”

Bode took another slug.
“What freedom?”

That wasn’t what he’d meant
to say. He’d meant to say he was happy to help, that he believed in
the cause. But all he wanted was to get the liberation out of the
way so that he and Valen could go in search of a normal
life.

Darkenage began to play a
slower tune, and a few of the sweat-stained gamblers cheered and
sloshed their drinks onto the cooling ground. Hedda walked over to
Darkenage and sat beside him, placing an arm around him. The night
was getting cold, and Bode thought about going to the loft for a
jacket.

Darkenage sang in his
strangely high voice.

High away go the
days

On the soft, rising
clouds.

Where does time go when we
sleep?

It crawls into tunnels
and

Howls for
companions;

It sits by our fires and
weeps.

God broke Earth’s first
day like bread,

Colored half of it dark,
salted it with stars,

And he said:

This is for
dreams,

This is for
shadows,

This is for crime and for
cover and sin.

You are the corpse and the
angels are buzzards;

You are alone till the sun
shines again…

Halfway through, some of
the staggering, swaying crowd had joined in, slinging arms around
one another’s shoulders, closing bleary eyes. Bode looked at the
end of the porch, but Valen was gone.

Eventually the music
stopped, and Bettina stood and announced tipsily that Harkville was
the last stronghold of love and beauty. That Harkville thrived
because it was lawless and wild and compassionate.

Bode swung off the
weathered planks and headed off into the darkness, into that purple
and black vastness out of reach of Harkville’s lights. Music
covered his footsteps at first, but as he got farther away, he
could hear the crunch of his borrowed shoes against gravel and
scrubby plants.

After a few minutes, he
heard a second set of footsteps approaching, but he didn’t turn.
Just sat on a patch of desert moss and opened his flask.

“
Don’t care for the
evening’s entertainment?” Valen asked.

Bode took a swig from the
flask. “Don’t care for any of them. Just more assholes who think
anarchy is the answer.”

Valen sat beside him.
“They’re not so bad.”

“
I know.” In the distance,
the music swelled, and a woman shrieked. He turned slightly to
Valen. The collar of his starched shirt dragged against his neck.
“I miss…the quiet. When we were traveling.”

He passed the flask to
Valen, and Valen knocked back a mouthful.

Bode’s irritation was
tempered by a wistfulness. He wanted to dance. Just not with
painted people. Not with men who talked but never listened. Not
with women who pretended to be free but bowed to men.

“
I miss it too.” Valen
passed the flask back to Bode.

The stars glittered
crazily, and all around them the world stretched, dangerous as
always. Canyons black like poisoned veins, sharpness in every tree,
a jagged, careless villainy to the mountains. Somewhere beyond the
mountains, the sea shivered against the shore and worked like a
disease, worming inside people and hammering an ancient rhythm into
their dreams, until their bodies followed their minds to a new home
against the rocks.

Valen cleared his throat.
“Will you dance with me?”

Just like that, the menace
of the wilderness diminished—a pup owning up to a wolf’s shadow, a
fire roaring itself into the ground. Bode wanted to laugh, mock
Valen, but instead he stepped forward. Tried not to be afraid of
the wonderful things he had. Crickets and stars, the moon dropping
silver light over the plain. His arms around Valen, and a soft
promise or command: “I lead.”

Valen’s body was large,
stiff. No grace or ease. But Bode guided him, gave him time to find
his footing, and after a moment, Valen forgot to be on guard.
Something lit up between them, more brilliant than the moon. The
music in town seemed to slow.

This. Just this, forever.
I want to be fucking
alive.

This desire to touch, to
stand together, to send up the ghosts of hope. The scratch of
Valen’s jaw against his. The future, coiled and dangerous in the
center of a dark road. The past strewn like a set of bones. They
stood far out in the desert, looking at the lights of Harkville.
The cold nearly stripped their skin from them, made Bode feel like
a skeleton of frost. Then Valen’s body pressed against his, and
together they formed something tough enough for the wasteland,
something with a hard-edged beauty and a merciless heat.

Valen looked into Bode’s
eyes. “You…” His voice came out hoarse. He tried again. “I think I
would always have known this was something good.”

8.

THE LIBERATION

The Liberators pulled the cattle truck up to
the woods at the southernmost edge of the farm. The sun hadn’t even
started to rise, though the edges of the sky were slowly
lightening. Bode tried to focus on the fading stars and moon and
not on his growing sense of unease.

The Liberators’ inside woman—the peppy girl
who’d led their tour on the visit—

met them at the back gate and ushered them
onto the property.

“
The most important thing
is to keep them moving,” she said as they walked up the south
pasture toward the barns. No trace of pep in her voice now. “The
performers do have a herd mentality, especially while under the
influence of the drugs. It might take some effort to get them out
of the buildings, but once they’re out, they’ll play Follow the
Leader.”

When they reached the cluster of paddocks
and barns, they prepared to split into groups. Hedda took the
stable. Finley took the chicken coop. Horse Leg, the petting zoo.
And the rest, including Bode and Valen, were given the milking
barn.

Valen told Bode and Bettina and a couple of
others to stay outside. Valen and Skullprute would untie the
performers, and then the Liberators outside would be in charge of
ushering those newly freed toward the south gate and into the
truck. Bode couldn’t stop glancing at the big white farmhouse in
the distance, gleaming in the first rays of dawn.

The inside woman unlocked each of the
buildings.

Moments later, everything exploded into
chaos.

Bode heard commotion from the chicken coop,
and then at least ten performers covered in feathers raced from the
building, Finley following behind them, shouting instructions.

There was a whinny from the stable, but Bode
didn’t have time to look, because suddenly a stampede of human
cattle thundered out of the milking barn. Bode and Bettina ran
alongside the herd, trying to direct it toward the truck. But there
was a lot of open space between the barn and the truck, and members
of the herd started to veer. Several headed back for the barn.

“
No!” Bode called to them.
“We’re going to take you somewhere s—” A performer plowed into him,
nearly knocking him over. The performer’s black and white tail
swung as she ran.

Through the crowd, Bode saw Valen emerge
from the barn. Valen was waving his arms at the performers, telling
them to cross the south paddock, go toward the truck. The sky was a
pale blue now, the moon still faintly visible. Bode lost sight of
Valen as human horses, ducks, goats, chickens all tore through the
south pasture. He heard Bettina shouting, and Horse Leg, but he
couldn’t tell what they were saying. A fair portion of the herd was
almost to the truck.

From the direction of the farmhouse, a
screen door slammed, and someone screamed.

When Bode spotted Valen again, Valen was
fighting off two women—sheepdogs—who barked as they attacked
him.

Bode raced toward Valen but was sidetracked
by a young man—dirt streaked, blood caked at the corners of his
mouth. He was running away from the herd, toward the farmhouse,
limping. When he saw Bode coming toward him, he veered suddenly
back toward the group. His legs gave out, and he collapsed,
writhing, on the ground. Bode slowed and crouched beside him. The
kid twisted, lashed at him. He smelled like shit. Like sick-sweet
infection. He kicked and panted and laughed.

Bode placed a steadying hand on his
shoulder. “Shh.” Bode tried to control his own breathing. Tried not
to think of LJ on the ground, his bruise spreading.

The kid sank his teeth into Bode’s arm.

Bode held back a cry and looked desperately
at the kid. Squeezed his eyes shut as teeth went through his skin.
He felt the bite pressure lessen suddenly. When he opened his eyes,
the kid was looking at him. Bode gazed back. The boy’s eyes were
blue, but they didn’t seem to let any light in. They were
depthless, like plastic.

“
You’re hurting me,” Bode
whispered.

The kid let go. His mouth worked, exposing
slick red teeth. A choking sound came from the back of his
throat.

“
Shhh.” Bode ignored the
blood trickling down his arm. He spoke as softly as he’d ever
spoken to anyone. “It’s okay. We’re taking you somewhere
safe.”

A crackling in the distance, and then—

I’m haaaapppyyy at home…

—
came through the outdoor
speakers. The sun dashed its light on the ground. The grass
sparkled. Bode saw several of the freed performers turn in the
direction of the music, while Horse Leg and Bettina tried to urge
them on. From the farmhouse came shouts. Then a shotgun
blast.

“
You’ll get food!” Bettina
called to the herd. “We will get you food, but you have to keep
moving!”

So haaaapppyyyyy

That the nights I spent alone are faded,
gone

“
Hey,” Bode whispered to
the boy, wanting to keep him focused.

The kid stared up at him, eyes wet and wide,
teeth clenched. “Do you wanna…m-milk the cows?” he asked between
breaths.

“
Shhh.”

Valen rushed over. “Bode,
we have to get out,
now
…” He stopped when he saw the boy. He crouched next to Bode.
“Is he injured? What’s—”

“
Do you wanna milk the
cows, baby?” The kid’s gaze cut sideways. “What’d I do?” he asked
hoarsely. “Mom? What’d I do?”

And anywhere I roam I’m holding on

Another shotgun blast. Screams. Three
figures were running down the hill from the house, shouting.