TWENTY-EIGHT

Jordan could not guess at how much time had passed. He’d slipped into and out of consciousness as if repeatedly dipping into a cool river.

He was still on the wagon; he could feel the motion. How long until the graveyard?

The light entering the coffin changed shades in an irregular pattern, and he guessed that the wagon drove down a lane arched with trees.

The wheels stopped creaking, but he was too exhausted to try to scream again.

There was a slapping sound. A scraping sound.

Then his coffin shifted. Again, two men were carrying him. He could tell by the rhythm. These men never spoke.

They were carrying him to the gravesite. Jordan pictured it easily. The hole in the ground would be prepared already, then the coffin would be lowered. The first shovelfuls of dirt would thump against the top of the coffin. Too soon, the cracks of light would be filled.

Then there would only be embalming silence. If he were lucky, the dirt would be wet and the weight of it above the coffin would be tightly packed enough to seal him from air. He’d suffocate quickly. If not, it would take him days to die, helpless to move, his thirst amplified by the other agonies of his broken body.

Tears filled his eyes, because the dirt slamming his coffin lid would also be slamming any hope of seeing Caitlyn again. He continued the prayers that he used to fill his conscious moments, prayers that she would survive the journey to Outside, that he could believe in those he’d entrusted with her life.

The rhythm of steps stopped abruptly. The coffin was lowered and set gently down.

Would there be a preacher at the gravesite to say words over his burial? Or would he be buried as an unknown pauper?

He thought of the years that had brought him there since the fire in the lab. Would he have changed that one act all those years ago?

No, it had to be done.

He was about to close his eyes to pray again when bright light filled his world. He squinted and saw the outlines of two figures against the sky, leaning down, looking at him.

He tried to speak. But he was too exhausted, too stressed.

Jordan felt the black timeless void surrounding his consciousness, and he fell into it yet again.

In the tree, screened by brush, Caitlyn listened to the approaching drums. She wasn’t worried that they would be discovered. No one crossing the bridge to their side of the river would think about anything except for what would happen when the march of the procession ended and the drumbeats quickened until the herald’s public proclamation.

She was lost in these grim thoughts when Billy nudged her. He pointed at Theo, who sat with his knees drawn to his chin. His face was wet with tears as he stared at the river.

Caitlyn moved closer and sat beside him.

“Theo?”

The procession had reached the bridge.

Theo shook his head, refusing to look at her. “I can’t watch. I can’t watch. I can’t watch.”

“You don’t have to. We’re not part of the crowd.”

Theo pushed his head against her shoulder. He pressed his hands against his ears. His body shuddered.

Caitlyn turned her head back to the bridge.

She’d heard about these, recognized what the rock pile meant, but had never seen one.

Bruno was the name Mason had given the black bear. Not original, but Mason never claimed creativity as a talent outside of dealing with prey. The bear paced constantly in the cramped cage, hidden far into the foliage behind Mason’s private cabin. The place was in the hills, a quiet perk provided by Bar Elohim.

Mason approached the cage with a dart gun in one hand and a collar dangling from the fingers of his other hand. The air reeked with feces, as cleaning the cage was not high on his priorities. Nor was feeding the bear. He wanted the bear in a constant state of irritable hunger.

The bear stopped pacing and stared suspiciously at Mason, as if sensing this was not another visit to throw half-rotten meat in the cage.

Leaving the collar dangling in his fingers, Mason rested the barrel of the dart gun on a cage bar, resentful that his cast made it necessary to use the bar to steady the gun. Without ceremony, he aimed at the bear’s flank and pulled the trigger. With a puff of compressed air, the dart struck the bear solidly. The bear spun in tight circles, trying to identify the source of pain.

Mason leaned the dart gun against the cage and unbuckled the collar as he waited until he saw the first signs of the anesthetic taking effect. Then he opened the cage door, stood in the opening, and taunted the bear.

Groaning in rage and confusion, it staggered out of the enclosure. Once outside, it took a few feeble swipes at Mason before falling on its side. Mason had arranged the whole event with practicality in mind. If he didn’t release the bear before it collapsed, he’d be forced to walk into the cage, risk dirtying his polished boots by stepping in bear crap, and have to drag the stinking animal out.

Mason waited another minute, watching the bear’s ribs, until a slow rise and fall showed that it was completely unconscious. He knelt beside the bear and attached the collar.

The collar included a small weight to ensure the front remained lodged under the bear’s chin—the payload sat on the back of the collar, and Mason didn’t want the bear to be able to reach it.

He put the payload in place. Without looking back, Mason hurried into the cabin. When Bruno woke, he would wander the valley, hunting a meal, with Mason’s vidpod on his neck. Just in case someone was going to check on Mason’s location.

Which now gave Mason about as much freedom as a person could expect in Appalachia.