Red Flood
By Nocomus Columbus
Copyright 2014 Nocomus Columbus
Prologue
Winter’s rage was on display outside the snow-covered structure. Winds pounded on the outer walls, knocking like an unwelcome visitor. From the look of it, the cabin had been abandoned far longer than it had been lived in. The ragged pair came upon the building the night before. The woman wanted to bypass it, keep moving. She told her husband, but he disagreed. Deep down she knew he was right.
The man tried to make his wife as comfortable as possible: he lit a fire in the old fireplace, boiled snow so she had clean water, offered his blanket again and again until she begrudgingly accepted.
Pain pulled her from the dream she was in. The pain was more intense than it had ever been. She rolled toward her husband, gently shaking him until he woke. “It’s time,” she said. The woman was on her back, head propped up by a rucksack, knees bent, breathing rhythmically in and out. She nodded to her husband prompting him to lower his hands. He paused to look at the woman’s face. Her calm expression hid the pain. “My god, she’s beautiful,” he said to himself, trying to calm fragile nerves.
“I’m going to push now,” she said, “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes,” he said, unsure of himself, in awe of her strength. The woman closed her eyes, drawing in one last breath before pushing.
A cry filled the small cabin.
“A boy,” the father said, handing the child to his mother.
“He’s beautiful,” she replied, with the infant on her breast. Tears welled up in the father’s eyes as he leaned forward to kiss the mother and child. He brushed the hair back from his wife’s forehead. “She’s so cold,” he thought. A faint sound was heard in the distance. The man and woman looked at the door.
“What was that?” she asked.
“It was nothing, just the wind,” he said. The father grabbed another blanket, covering mother and child. He took a seat on the floor beside them. The newborn was sound asleep.
“I’m afraid,” the woman said. The man took her hand in his.
“You’re going to be alright,” he replied.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she said, looking down at the sleeping infant.
“You need rest,” the father said. The new mother closed her tired eyes.
Once the mother was asleep, the man gently raised her hand, placing it on the infant’s back. The temperature inside the cabin had dropped over the last few hours. The father got up from the floor, and made his way over to the fireplace. The flame was low. He grabbed a log, hesitating for a moment. “Too much smoke and they’ll find us,” he thought, “but I can’t let them freeze to death. Maybe it was, just the wind.” He placed the log into the fireplace, stoking the flame until it rose to a level he was satisfied with.
He walked over and opened the cabin’s front door, quickly shutting it once outside. The cold air stung his hands and face. He reached into his pocket and took out a cigar. After it was lit, the father slowly inhaled the first puff of smoke until his lungs were full. His father had done the same thing on the day he was born. The world was different then, before the fighting. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was like. The man felt a sense of guilt and sadness for bringing a child into this world.
The man threw down his cigar; his musings disturbed by a scent dog. A second and third hound cried out. His heart began to race. He crouched down, squinting his eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of the tracking party. He hoped to see them before they saw him, but instead all he saw were Icy branches, grey sky, and layer upon layer of white. The man knew sound could carry for miles in the wilderness. There was no way for him to tell how close they were.
When he entered the cabin, his wife was sitting up, nursing the newborn.
“Did you hear them?” she asked, slowly rocking the child.
“I did.” he said.
The mother looked down at her baby, giving the boy a kiss. She raised her head and looked up at the father who was standing, entrenched in the doorway. “You know what you have to do,” she said.
“No,” the man shook his head, “I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice,” she said.
It was a surreal moment for the father as he watched the mother say goodbye to her son. He saw tears stream down her cheeks and felt them rolling down his own. The woman walked over to him, pausing to wipe her face. “Take care of our son,” she said, handing over the swaddled infant.
“I will.”
The man and woman embraced. She gave the father the small, iron box. He dropped it into his rucksack. “I’ll come back for you, I’ll never stop until I find you” he said, “I promise.”
“I know,” she said, as she leaned in to kiss him. The man opened the door. Outside, the sound of the hounds was louder.
The father glanced over his shoulder. From where he was standing, the cabin was nothing more than a black dot in an ocean of white. The man looked down at the infant in his arms.
“I’ll get her back,” he said softly, “I’ll get her back.”
Red Flood
Chapter 1
Moses was often on the receiving end of taunts and teases from his twelve-year old peers. The boy was uncoordinated, clumsy, and just plain awkward. He lived with his grandmother in one of the city’s many governmental housing complexes. This was home, at least as long as he could remember. His grandmother meant everything to him. She was his mother when he needed comforting, his father when he needed protection, his nurse when he was hurt, an advocate when he needed defending, and most importantly, she was the one person that could make him forget how sad he was. He loved his grandmother, but no matter how many roles she tried to fill, Moses always felt like something was missing.
Most days he didn’t think about his parents. Those were good days. There were bad days too though. Baseball games were the worst. He’d be on deck, taking practice swings. He’d look into the stands and see all the other kids’ parents. They’d be chatting with each other, or clapping; cheering on their sons, yelling at the ump. He pictured his parents; sitting in the front row of the bleachers. They wouldn’t be talking, or yelling.. They’d just be sitting, watching him, with smiles on their faces, looking like there was no other place in the world they’d rather be. His dad would give him a thumbs up and say something like “remember to keep your elbow up son, you got this, just like I showed you.” His mom would nod her head in approval, and with the most beautiful voice ever heard she’d say “watch for the curve ball.”
There was a problem though. His parents weren’t there, just his grandmother, sitting in the bleachers on a pillow, a constant grin on her face. She’d wave at him, and yell something encouraging in her thick Jamaican accent. He’d give a head nod, maybe even wave if he didn’t feel too embarrassed. Her smile brought him peace.
After a game Moses’ grandmother would take him to the local diner for breakfast. It didn’t matter what time it was, the diner served breakfast twenty-four hours a day, and that’s what they ate. They always topped off their meal with a milkshake. Moses liked chocolate, his grandmother preferred Strawberry. They’d sit in a booth for hours and talk about life in between sips. She’d tell him stories about how America was before the war. She talked about his grandfather, and his father. He hung onto every word, interrupting only when he needed her to repeat a word he couldn’t understand. They were good talks.
One day, while Moses and his grandmother were at the café, he asked about his mother.
“Did you know her?”
“Who baby?”
“My mom.”
His grandmother furrowed her brow.
“No,” she said.
“I wonder what she was like?” Moses asked.
Moses’ grandmother relaxed her face. He watched her mouth form into a smile, which made him smile as well.
“I only know what your father told me,” the grandmother continued, “She was beautiful he said, like no other woman he’d ever seen. She was tall, with eyes greener than the greenest field of grass. Her hair was dark and red.” His grandmother reached across the table and stroked the boy’s hair. “It was dark as blood,” she said. The old woman’s face became serious again. “Your father loved her,” she said. Moses felt sad thinking about his mother. His grandmother could tell from his body-language that the boy was upset.
“I’m sorry child. We don’t need to talk about this. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Grandma…”
“What is it baby?”
Moses sat up, fixing his posture. For a moment, his grandmother thought he no longer looked like a little boy. He looked like a young man, like his father. It was his eyes though, that were his most striking feature. His grandmother loved his eyes. They were big and green, like his mother’s.
“What happened to my parents?”
This time it was the grandmother whose body-language changed. She leaned back into the booth, across the table from Moses. She closed her eyes, letting out a sigh before opening them again. A sad smile was on her face now. Moses thought she looked older, like the question had aged her by ten years. She looked tired.
“Another time baby. Another time.” she said.
One summer night as Moses was taking practice swings in the batter’s box, he noticed a man out of the corner of his eye. The baseball league Moses played in was small, consisting of only four teams. Because the league was so small, Moses’ team had to play the other teams over and over. He got to know the other players. He recognized their parents’ faces. This man had a face he’d never seen before, but what bothered Moses was the way the stranger stared at him. The man wasn’t watching the game, he was watching Moses. When it came time to bat, Moses looked over at his grandmother who returned his glance with a smile. The stranger’s presence made the boy feel uneasy as he tried to clear his mind for the task at hand. Moses stepped up to the plate. He planted his feet and took another practice swing. The first pitch was thrown.
“Strike one!” the umpire shouted.
The second pitch was thrown.
“Strike two!”
The third pitch was thrown. Moses swung the bat with everything he had. He heard a roar erupt from the bleachers. He watched the ball sail out of the baseball field. As the ball continued to fly further and further away, the roaring died out giving way to silence. Moses turned and looked at the umpire who had taken his mask off. The man’s eyes were wide, his mouth hung open. Moses looked around the stadium at the other players and the parents. There was a collective look of disbelief that everyone wore, everyone except for his grandmother, and the man he’d never seen before.
After the game, as Moses and his grandmother walked to her car, he heard someone call his name from behind. “Moses!” The boy and his grandmother turned to find the stranger he had seen earlier. “Here,” the man said as he tossed Moses the ball, “thought you might want to keep it, being you’re first home-run and all.” The stranger wore a grin. He was tall and slim, with red, greased-back hair. He had a thin mustache and a small, triangular-shaped goatee. His cheeks were marked with acne scars. Moses thanked him for the ball.
“That sure was something,” the man said, “How’d you learn to hit like that?” Moses shrugged.
“Practice,” the grandmother’s abruptly replied. Moses thought she looked angry, which surprised the boy. Anger was an emotion his grandmother seldom displayed. She squeezed the boy’s hand. The man’s grin morphed into smirk.
“Practice,” the stranger said with a laugh. The man began laughing uncontrollably. His entire body shook in amusement. “Practice,” he said mockingly. Moses’ grandmother turned toward the car, simultaneously pulling on Moses’ arm. The boy turned his back on the man, keeping in step with his grandmother. He could still hear the stranger behind him, laughing, repeating the word practice. Moses looked at his grandmother. It was fear he saw in her face earlier, not anger. That was clear now.
When Moses and his grandmother got home, she told him he could no longer play on the baseball team. It angered the boy, and when he asked her why, all she said was that she was sorry. Her vague apology only worsened his anger. Before Moses went to bed that night, he told his grandmother that he hated her. She didn’t say anything back.
Moses had trouble concentrating in class the next day. He felt guilty about what he said to his grandmother. He didn’t mean it. During recess he made card for her expressing his guilt and remorse. When she picked him up from school later, his apology would start with a hug, then the card. After that, he’d tell her how sorry he was, how important she was to him. He’d promise to never say anything like that to her ever again. It was a promise he meant to keep.
“Where is she?” Moses wondered. His grandmother always picked him up from the small private school he attended. The woman was late for everything, but never late picking him up. The teacher told Moses to just sit-tight, but as soon as the lady went to the bathroom, he left, opting to walk home instead. He knew he’d be in trouble with his grandmother, she never let Moses walk alone in the city, but he today was an exception. Something wasn’t right.
Moses walked by The Office of Programming where armed guards stood by, watching people wait in line for their mandatory chip updates. Moses’ grandmother never made him wait in the Programming line. She said his chip was fine, that he didn’t need an update. He was glad for that. Though he never told anyone, the guards frightened Moses. The sentries didn’t speak and rarely moved, but he had heard plenty of stories from classmates about them, about terrible things they did to citizens who broke the law. Moses’ teacher said The Rebels didn’t believe in Programming. She said The Rebels thought Chips were evil, which was one of the reasons for the war. Moses asked his teacher what she thought. Her demeanor quickly changed from warm to frigid when he asked his question. She told Moses that chips were good, that they kept people from getting sick by things like pollution and disease. She said anyone who believed otherwise was misinformed.
When he got to the apartment, Moses was surprised to find the front door open. His grandmother always kept the door locked. Moses pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder until the opening was wide enough for him to squeeze his thin frame through. He turned sideways and slowly shuffled inside. An overturned end table lay in front of the door. The living room was wrecked; drawers open, papers strewn about. Moses felt his chest tighten. He saw something on the kitchen floor. It was his grandmother, lying on her back. Her eyes were closed. She was bleeding from the neck. Her throat had a deep gash. Next to her head was a pool of blood, dark red blood. Moses moved to her. He dropped to his knees by her head and called out in a desperate voice.
“Grandma!”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her face was peaceful, not the face of someone whose throat had been slit. Moses began to cry.
“Hush baby”, she said in a whisper.
“Who did this?” Moses asked, fighting off the flood of tears.
“Moses, I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it grandma? Should I call 911?”
“No child,” she said, “I need you to go over to the oven. There’s a drawer on the bottom where I keep the pots.” The boy shook his head.
“I got to get you help grandma.”
“Listen Moses, I need you to pull out that bottom drawer. There’s a box in there, behind the drawer,” his grandmother paused to cough, “Get the box.”
“Grandma, you need help,” Moses said.
“Listen to me Mos
es…” Her eyes widened.
“Some bad folks want you, but your daddy won’t let them have you, he’ll be coming for you,” the grandmother said, stopping to cough again. Moses placed his hand under her head.
“What are you talking about grandma?” Moses asked. As far he knew, his father was dead; killed in action fighting the rebels.
“I tried to protect you as long as I could, baby. But I’m old. I’m tired. It’s time for me to rest,” his grandmother said, lifting a hand to his cheek.
“Don’t talk like that grandma.”
“Get that box and get out of here. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t talk to anyone. You got to hide, baby, till your daddy finds you. Do you understand?”
“Yes grandma,” Moses replied.
The boy rose from the floor. He looked at his jeans, drenched in blood from the knees down. Moses walked over to the oven and squatted down by the metal drawer. He glanced back at his grandmother. Her eyes were closed again. She looked pale, but he could see her chest rising and falling. He pulled out the drawer, and placed it off to the side. He stuck his hand underneath the oven, into the empty space where the drawer had occupied. At first he couldn’t feel anything. He stretched his arm further into the darkness. That’s when he felt the small, metallic object. He wrapped his hand around the back of the box, and slid it out onto the kitchen floor. He stared at the box for a moment. It was a dark metal, small enough to hold in one hand.
“I got it,” he said, looking back at his grandmother. There was no response.
Chapter 2
Moses filled a backpack with some food and clothes. He spent the next few days hiding in the city’s alleys, avoiding everyone just like his grandmother had instructed him to do. On the fifth day he ran out of food; by the sixth he felt like he was going to starve. Moses put on a sweatshirt, pulling the hood over his head. He walked until he reached the diner his grandmother used to take him to. He looked in through the glass at the booth where they would sit. The boy started to cry. He wiped away the tears with his sleeve and went to the back of the diner where the dumpster was located. Moses climbed into the dumpster. He ripped open trash bags, pulling out half-eaten pieces of bacon, biscuits, and pancakes. He grabbed a carton of expired milk and drank it until he was full. When he was finished, he threw the carton into the alley. He felt angry, not only at whoever had killed his grandmother, but at everyone. Moses took a seat in the dumpster placing his head in his hands. He saw a newspaper in the trash near his feet. His face was on one of the pages. “She was right,” he said to himself. They were looking for him. Moses loaded his back pack with as much as he could carry and left.