Untitled Agenda 21 Sequel (9781476746852) (16 page)

Command and control was what it was all about. And the only ones who have the power to command and control are the ones with the power to kill.

Julia took her hat off and let her hair fall down over her shoulders. She pushed it back, tucking it behind her ears. Robert had liked it when she did that. Sometimes he would reach out and do it for her. She hoped he was in a safer place than she was. The woods, the stream, the day stretched before her and she sat there, helpless. She pushed her fingers against the side of her swollen ankle. Two dents, like fat dimples, were left when she took her fingers away. Pushing on it didn't
really hurt. That was a good sign, she guessed. Maybe it would heal quickly. But she didn't like the bruised blueness of it. The water bottles Winston had left were no longer cold. At first they felt good. Now they just felt heavy.

She tried to stand. She rolled onto her knees and gripped a small, low branch on a nearby tree. It bent, but didn't break, when she used it to pull herself up. She stood on her good foot unsteadily. The branch creaked an objection to her weight. She swayed a little with it, like a one-legged dancer.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she put her right foot down, testing it. Again lightning-white pain streaked from her ankle up her leg. Not quite as bad as when she first fell, but still painful. She raised her foot, rested a moment, then tried again, but the pain was intense. Unbearable. Maybe, she thought, if I can get down to the stream and put my foot in the cold water, that would help. Sitting back down, she grabbed her backpack and slid, using her good foot to pull herself forward. The fallen leaves were damp and slippery. That made it a little easier. Her uniform bunched up around her hips; she didn't care. There was no one here to see her. No one here to help her.

The stream was shallow. She rolled her pant leg up to her knee. The only way to get her ankle into the cold water was to turn it sideways and lean it on a smooth, mossy stone underwater. Not bad. The moss was soft. The cold water felt good, washing over her ankle, rippling between her toes. Rummaging through her pack, she counted her nourishment cubes. She still had the ax, the change of clothes, and the water bottles. Everything she was issued, except the ammonia spray, but nothing that would help her walk. Only the cold water could help her with that.

Maybe when it didn't hurt so much to move around she could make some sort of a crutch from a tree limb.

The sun changed slowly from pink dawn to full golden daylight and moved from peering shyly over the horizon to its lofty position overhead.
No clouds today. A small brown deer came to the creek, splayed its spindly front legs and dipped its head to drink, but spun around and raced off when she moved, the white patch on its raised tail visible before disappearing into the shadows of the woods. She pictured herself leaping onto its back and riding away somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Her head hurt, both temples throbbed. She cupped some water in her hands and splashed her face. Water was such a simple thing, but so important. If the people in the Compounds only knew how much there was, they would be outraged. Instead, they accepted their humble rations of water without a murmur. Julia promised herself that if she ever got back there she'd tell them.
I'll whisper it to one or two people
, she thought,
they'll whisper it to others, and it will ripple out. Ripple out like water itself
.

But someone might report her.

Risky business, whispering the truth.

A dark green bullfrog croaked, its throat puffed out, making it look bigger. It reminded her of the Enforcer who gave the orders to go into this Human Free Zone. All puffed up and loud with its own importance.

Dragonflies with silver-blue bodies and black wings skimmed above the surface of the water. Other frogs, smaller than the bullfrog, their faces green, bodies brown, floated in a still section where the water wasn't moving. On the edge, great reeds and other plants grew. A bird, black with splashes of red on its wings, kept some kind of vigil, flying from tree to tree, crying out shrill warnings. It must be protecting a nest from her. Little did it know that Julia was more helpless than it was.

Her mind wandered, her thoughts random. Looking at dragonflies, listening to frogs, she was doing what Robert said she always did. Daydreaming. What good was that? She had to focus, had to think.

Could she crawl back alongside the stream to where they had
started three days ago? How long would it take to crawl all the way back to the Compound? And if she did make it, what would the Enforcers or Authorities do to her for not being part of the team, for not being productive?

She knew sitting here was not a solution. She had to try
something
.

She pulled her foot out of the water, forced her shoe on over her wet, swollen foot. She slipped her backpack onto her shoulders, got onto her hands and knees, and tried to crawl.

Immediately, the backpack slipped off her back and dangled by her side, the weight of it pulling her off-balance. One canvas strap pulled tightly against the side of her neck. She took it off her shoulders.

Dragging the pack beside her, she tried again to crawl. The pack bounced beside her. She could hear the ax banging against the water bottles inside and against the ground. Rocks and pebbles dug into her knees, ripping her trousers. She kept trying to go a few more feet, then a few more feet.

Soon her knees were bleeding.

She couldn't go on. It was too painful. Reality swept over her, trailing cold fingers up and down her spine: she was going to die here. Alone.

The sun made its predictable journey across the sky while she passed a long day sitting with her foot in the cold water. Then the sun sank below the horizon and she spent a long night in restless sleep.

Finally, dawn erupted all around her again, waking her with the sounds of the forest.

As the day passed, she tried several times to stand, but the pain was too great. There was no sign of Winston or the team. She felt helpless and, more than that, hopeless.

A wail rose in her throat, a burning rush of air that poured out of her.

She screamed.

T
hey had walked upstream for eight days. John decided they should walk two more days in the same direction, dropping clues, then cross over to the other side and follow the water back downstream. He was hoping they had thrown off any search teams and that he and Joan would eventually catch up with David, Emmeline, and the children. In Joan's opinion, he was hoping for a miracle. If they each walked for ten days in opposite directions then, by her math, it would take them nearly a month—assuming they walked much faster than the children—for her and John to catch up. And she honestly didn't know how much longer she could do this.

How far had they walked that day? The terrain was so rough. Rocks and logs and little black bugs, hard to see, nipped at their faces and arms.

They had scavenged for food as they walked, things like berries and even grass. They left clues, scattered along the trail like flotsam. Their shoes were wearing thin. Their nerves were wearing thin. The stream was growing thin. And so were they.

They only talked when they took a break or stopped for the night.
But they had lots of time to think between dawn and dusk. Joan pulled her memories out and looked at them, thought about them. Some were like precious stones, pretty to look at, the kind of memories that made her smile. She thought of their farm back then, in the before-times, with long, straight rows of corn, standing still as sentries in the field, and bushy green tomato plants that hid their bright red fruit under the leaves. Standing in the field, picking one of those perfect, sun-warmed gifts of food, the juice running down your chin, made you feel childlike and carefree. They'd had picnics with neighbors and the children caught fireflies and put them in canning jars with holes punched in the lids. Sometimes they'd take the children to the zoo. She thought of her rose garden, and the little stone bench in the middle. John had laid a stepping-stone path so she could walk among the roses and tend to them. Her roses won prizes at the county fair. That was long ago, back when she thought roses were important.

Other memories were dark. The way their lives changed, slowly at first. A little regulation here and another one there. Nuisances, but they tolerated them. Then came bigger rules and regulations rolled out at what later became known as “reeducation meetings.” They weren't called that at first, of course—they were called “sustainable development meetings.” Sustain this, sustain that. Protect this, protect that.

Protect the Earth. Protect the water. Back then, they had to pay taxes for rainwater runoff on the farm. How ridiculous that was, a rainwater-runoff tax. The corn, the tomatoes, all the crops shriveled one hot summer when they couldn't irrigate. Joan's roses died, too, that same summer. All that potential food lost, food that people needed, just to protect water. The people weren't protected. Ah, but the government was there to help, they said. Yes, indeed, they were there.

Before the government took over their farm, they promised Joan and John positions in charge of the farm commune. That made sense since they were, after all, farmers. And David was promised a job as a
Gatekeeper. They would be provided with housing, clothing, and food. It all sounded good.

At first, Joan didn't see a big problem with any of it. She had no idea, no suspicions, at the time, because, by nature, she was hopeful and trusting.

John didn't like the idea of not owning his own property, but private property ownership was outlawed under new regulations, regulations passed by their duly elected representatives, so he had no choice but to accept what they said.

Joan thought she could still grow roses in their new job. She couldn't. No roses at the farm commune. No flowers at all. Flora and fauna were to be protected from humans. But Citizens were not protected. They were worked until they no longer had any value. Citizens had to give more than they took.

She quickly lost her naïve and trusting nature. But by then it was too late.

Later, long after the relocation, the Authorities decided the farm commune didn't need managers anymore. They said that armed guards would be enough to keep the workers doing their jobs. Joan and John were reassigned. John was put on the Transport Team; Joan was to manage the Children's Village.

John was signaling now that she needed a break, pointing to a little grove of trees. Was John as tired as Joan was? Probably not. His job on the Transport Team was physical and gave him endurance. Her job as manager of the Children's Village was mental, not physical. Even still, she had failed miserably at it. The children under her supervision hadn't thrived. They were going to be relocated, and that's why Emmeline had escaped with Elsa. It was all her fault.

Joan sat beside John, grateful for the chance to rest.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Should we continue?”

Joan shrugged. “Whatever you think best. I trust your judgment.”

“I've changed my mind about going upstream for two more days.
I think it's time to cross over. Walk on the other side and start downstream. Start going in the direction David would have chosen.”

“I like the sound of that,” Joan said, eager to reunite with her family. “Let's do it.”

“If we're lucky and the Protectors have been following our clues, they will be walking upstream while we are on the opposite side. They could easily spot us if we're not careful. We'll have to move away from the stream, deeper into the woods, where we can't be seen. But we'll still keep the stream in sight and follow it as best we can. We must be very vigilant at all times. Keep our eyes and ears open.”

Joan nodded that she heard him. “Can we sit for a while longer?”

Squirrels skittered around them and chased each other, spiraling up and around tree trunks, like playful children. When had they last seen playful children? Playfulness had been programmed out of them in the Children's Village. Walking on toy energy boards was not play, it was training at the most basic level.

“We can't waste time,” John told her. “The longer we sit, the greater distance we'll have to cover to reach David.” He was right. But then he rubbed her arm and added, “Two more minutes can't hurt.”

“I thought there were wolves in the Human Free Zone,” Joan said. “That's what the Authorities told us.”

“The Authorities told us a lot of things that turned out not to be true. Wolves probably aren't native to this area,” John said. “Farther west is where they'll be. Probably coyote and fox around here, but they won't attack us.”

A hawk swooped in, its great wings beating the air, and hooked its talons into one of the squirrels on a distant branch. The other squirrels played on, oblivious, while the bird soared away, its prey dangling helpless.

They crossed the shallow stream, stepping from stone to stone to keep their shoes as dry as possible. John spotted some edible mushrooms and they ate them as they walked. The stream curved this way
and that, following the path of least resistance. That's what they had done when it came to the relocation. They too had chosen the path of least resistance and look where it had taken them.

They moved away from the stream, into the edge of meadows and woods. A furry red animal ran in front of them, its tail full, feathery almost, with a white tip. It turned, and headed into some underbrush. Joan could see its pointed nose, small ears like triangles standing up on the side of its head. She stopped walking.

“Only a fox,” John said. “They're shy, unless they have rabies. That one looked healthy enough.”

Joan hoped he was right about that. And she hoped he was right about the wolves not being native to this area. She had to trust him. He was all she had. Everything else was gone.

They walked for two days, careful now not to leave any trace or clue they had been there. Insects buzzed in the grass and in the air with whirring sounds and chirps. Leaves rustled. As silent as John and Joan were, they were always surrounded by one sound or another. Even the breeze made noise as it moved past their ears, across their faces. The earth was abuzz with the music of living things.