Exodia (8 page)

I interrupt him. “How do I fit
in?”

“
You’re not who you think
you are.” He gestures at my left arm. “Roll up your
sleeve.”

I do. I know how purplish my tattoo
might appear. Maybe even red. Vinn nods his head as I bend my arm.
I point my elbow first at him and try to twist my arm so I can see
at least the edge of the mark. Yes, it’s red toned.

We’re both silent for a
second before he says, “We’re helping you because we’ve learned
certain things. Things that lead us to believe that you’ll be the
one to get us out of this
–
for lack of a better
word
–
slavery. We
follow David Ronel, but he preaches that he is not the one to give
us back our country. He says it will be accomplished by a man who
knows Exodia well. Your name keeps coming up. On walls. Carved into
tree trunks. Painted on rocks. Scratched into metal panels. Iron
even.”

Vinn stares at me. I don’t know what to
say.

He continues, “Ronel says our victory
will begin by taking back Exodia. It’s the central part of this
continent, the least affected by the radiation fallout, the most
valuable in terms of land, food, water, and the new throne of
government.”

I swallow hard. I feel nailed to my
seat. How do they expect a shy kid to lead them?

“
Your mother is not your
mother.” Vinn says, kicking back his chair and rising. He seems
angry.

I’m shocked by his statement and can
only think to offer a fact equally scandalous: “I killed a man. A
Blue.”

He looks intently at me. “We know.
Everyone knows. Your grandfather has a warrant for your execution.
It’s what put your escape plan in motion. You’ll be out of his
reach if we can get you past the perimeter. News like this stays
pretty localized. You’ll be safe away from Exodia’s
grasp.”

I ignore his statement about my mother.
She is my mother.

It doesn’t really surprise me that my
grandfather is not hesitating to follow his cruel law. I would have
been dead by now if I hadn’t run when I did. No trial, no chance
for an explanation from me, no desire but to make an example of his
own grandson. A doubt creeps in–am I his grandson?

Carter knocks before opening the door.
“Ready?” He seems unusually quiet this morning. I wonder how long
he’s been at the door.

Vinn nods, collects some things. I
hoist my golden stash onto my back and grab the food bag as
well.

* * *

I stand at the edge of the lake and
watch as Carter helps Vinn uncover a rowboat and retrieve the oars
hidden beneath. We stow our bags in the bottom, push the boat into
the shallow water, and Carter and I maneuver ourselves without
rocking the boat too much, with him in the middle and me in the
back. Vinn gets his feet wet pushing us off from shore, leaps in,
and sits at the bow. Carter uses the oars to spin us out and around
and headed toward the far shore. He rows with steady, strong
strokes.

Vinn catches me scanning the sky.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s too early for spotter planes to get
this far. We’ll make it to the other side no problem. This’ll cut
three hours off walking around the lake.”

I redirect my attention to the water.
I’ve seen lots of lakes, but I’ve never been on one or in one.
There’s a river in Exodia. I haven’t set foot in it. Maybe someday
I’ll learn to swim.

I look into the depths as the weedy
bottom disappears and the water’s color changes from green to
darkest blue. I grip the edges of the boat and center my weight,
keep my head up, and focus on the shore. I count Carter’s strokes
and I’m surprised when I reach a hundred and we seem no
closer.

Carter is facing me and speaks in
bursts as he works the oars, pulls, lifts, sinks them in
again.

“
Won’t be long,
kid.

“
Don’t worry.

“
I’ll get ya
there.”

We’re only three strokes
closer, but his assurance shrinks the distance. I surmise it’ll
take twenty or thirty minutes to cross. I close my eyes and picture
Lydia. Lydia Sroka. My mind wanders to the feel of her hand on
mine. The carving we traced together. Her dead brother’s name. I
keep my eyes pressed tightly and think of the strange
sentence:
Dalton Battista is not Lucas
Sroka.
I rearrange the letters in my mind’s
eye, a game to make the time go quickly, until I fit them into a
sensible message:
Dalton Battista, sit on
Usala’s rock
. My eyes spring open because
I’ve heard of Usala’s rock from my Red nanny. One of her stories
about Ronel. A siege, or stand, or victory, something short-lived,
at Usala’s rock, the old monument from the terrorist attack of … of
a date I can’t remember.

The shore looms close and the boat
rocks as Vinn jumps out to pull us the last yard. Carter joins him
to pull until they’ve beached the entire thing and I have to forget
my anagram, wobble myself out onto dry land, grab my backpacks, and
watch the men camouflage the handy transportation. I wonder if
they’ll need to wait for dark to row back, to be safe.

“
How far?” I ask.

“
Not far,” Carter replies,
but for him that could mean an hour or a day.

Vinn snorts, throws some dirt up in the
air, and watches it fall back to the earth. I’m sure he’s checking
wind direction, aware of his own foul scent, but he reminds me of a
bird that dusts its feathers in a sandy bath or a dog that rolls on
the ground and whips up a powder storm. He seems satisfied and
leads us up the bank and through a woodsy mound that opens onto a
rise overlooking valleys on either side.

I see farms, much larger than the ones
we passed yesterday before Barrett made us dart into the woods and
off the highway. I wonder aloud if we will follow old roads or
continue skirting farms and settlements through woods and old
parks.

“
Not far,” Carter says
again. “We’ll catch the old pipeline. Traveling gets real easy then
for a straight forty or so miles. We’ll try to catch a truck. Don’t
want to wear out those fancy shoes of yours.”

I don’t look back at him. I know his
tone is joking. My shoes are no better than his tire-rubber boots,
but mine are dyed blue, government issued.

We walk on and I begin to feel less
sore as I warm up to the hike. The birds chirp above us, one in
particular has a pleasant melody. I am less afraid, too. And the
farther we get from Exodia the less burdened I am. These people
expect me to be some kind of hero-leader. That’s not going to
happen. I’ll blend in with the Reds, learn their ways, help where I
can, and someday go back to find Lydia. But not to attack and win
back Exodia. Ronel may want someone who knows Exodia as well as I
do, but there’s no way these people can match my grandfather’s
arsenal, man-power, and psychic advantage.

I press my hand against one of my belt
sacks, remembering the stolen ledger papers there. The papers
crinkle. I hope there’s something on them that will help David
Ronel. He may let that be the extent of my contribution. I’ll read
them when we camp tonight.

Vinn stops suddenly, ducks down, and
motions for us to do the same. We crouch uncomfortably among the
low ferns. He makes some coded hand gestures to Carter who nods
sharply and puts his hand on my shoulder. He mouths directions:
stay down, stay quiet.

Vinn inches forward, discards his pack
and his stinky vest, and pulls a double action Stun-n-Run gun from
his back pocket. I ache to open my food bag. Lydia said it also
contained a couple of weapons. I should have checked it before we
left, put a weapon in easier reach.

Carter shrugs off his bag, intending to
back up Vinn. He, too, has a weapon ready. It’s a hammer, kind of
crude, but effective in close quarters. I still don’t hear anything
unusual, but I notice that the birds are no longer
singing.

Vinn and Carter rise slowly
and creep ahead. I feel useless, helpless. I, who so recently
raised a deadly fist against a stranger, am cowering in the weeds
like a child. I risk some deliberate moves
–
I settle both bags to the ground and
explore the outer pocket of the food bag. A knife. Just a cooking
knife. Sheathed in a metal
jacket that has
probably protected its serrated edge for decades.

I grip the handle and rise, keeping the
sharp metal sleeve in my left hand–an extra weapon for something
deadly I’ve been trained to do.

I hear shouts, followed by the sounds
of men fighting. Grunts and human growls. Cries of pain. A woosh,
then a high-pitched whistling followed by an explosion.

I’m already running in their direction
when my name is called. I slide down an incline and dive through
heavy brush, knife ready. I take in a gory sight, much worse than
my simple bloodless murder. Two men are lying quite still, quite
dead, quite bloody, and then my brain unravels all the clues. Two
Blue soldiers are sprawled face up, but they have no faces. I want
to laugh at my first impression. I start to laugh, catch myself,
turn and vomit. I haven’t missed the most important clue: Vinn is
lying there, too, not quite still, not quite dead, but very, very
bloody.

“
Help me,” Carter
commands.

I sheath the knife, clumsily tuck it in
my first belt sack, and kneel next to Vinn. Together Carter and I
get him to his feet and up the hill.

* * *

We waste precious minutes deciding what
is best for Vinn. He argues for what is best for me.

Vinn’s wound is serious, too serious
for him to continue on, but also too dangerous for him to go back
alone. His face shines pale and waxy as a corpse. I offer to return
with them, but Vinn, between gasps and groans, and slumped against
a tree trunk, insists that it is more urgent than ever to get me
far away. The soldiers have tracked me, he believes, and he curses
himself for not checking my bags or boots for a tracking device. I
assure him that nothing could be further from the truth. Such
technology has lapsed and besides, there was never any chance for
anyone to plant anything on me.

Suddenly I remember my solar phone and
pull it out of my belt sack. Dead. Totally dead until it catches
the light and begins to power up. I turn it off, remove the solar
cells, and crush the phone against a rock.

My eyes stay down. My guilt triples as
I realize I’m to blame for two more deaths, maybe three if anything
happens to Vinn.

“
You take him back,” I say
to Carter. “Just point me in the right direction. I can find my
way.” Carter frowns.

Vinn cries out in pain, shakes his head
and curses himself again, this time for mishandling his home-made
explosives. “Just go with him, Carter,” he manages to
gasp.

Carter is squatting next to Vinn,
pressing green leaves against his chest. He looks up at me and
points. His simple gesture says much more than his usual rambling
banter.

I wordlessly offer Carter some of my
coins, but I’m insulting him; he waves me off. He gets Vinn back
onto his feet, shoulders one of their bags, and puts his other arm
around Vinn’s waist. The two of them trudge off without
me.

Vinn will hobble on thinking I am
trailing behind against his wishes. But I’m not. I empty out both
of my backpacks. I rummage through Vinn’s forgotten bag and repack
only the food and items I want into my two bags, splitting the
money among my belt sacks, pockets, and the bags. With the food,
weapons, and coins balanced evenly on my back I trudge off
alone.

Chapter 6 Death March

From the first page of the
Ledger:

He will rescue the poor Reds
from oppression and violence. He will rise up against the usurper,
f
or he is noble.

LYDIA AND BARRETT made the return trip
in less time, unburdened by backpacks. Lydia seemed distracted,
barely talkative, and Barrett sensed a change in their
relationship. He slowed his pace to stay even with her, stole
glances at her face, and tried to imagine what he had done to
disturb her.

He’d been living in her house for a
couple of months now, ever since his father parked him there and
promised to return soon. A hunting trip? A job? A secret mission?
Who knew where he and Lydia’s stepfather and another man had gone.
The third man had left his two young kids as well and Barrett,
after a few days, unwillingly appointed himself as man of the
house, though Lydia’s mother tried her best to keep an eye on all
of them in addition to working a night shift. For Barrett, working
odd jobs, spying, and stealing from the Blues all fell into place
and, most importantly, living in the old house put him near Lydia
every single day.