The Courier

Cort sat on a rock, face to the ocean, eyes on an enormous metal spike that rose from the water—a remnant from the not-so-distant past, a broken drill bit left by the Visitors. Cort has viewed recordings of the big machines descending from the sky, penetrating mother earth. Like ants whose hill was kicked, people around the world scurried about angrily, shook fists, threw missiles. The Visitors stomped on our heads with laser canons and bigger bombs until those who were left scuttled away and let them work.

The gas emitted from the machines changed the environment. Animals that breathed in the fumes grew larger and more ferocious. People too. Giants recently banded together and conquered Fort Dallas. The Council of Eastern Cities were in talks over how to handle the threat, talks Cort thought would go nowhere. The cities rarely agree, other than the agreement not to attack each other—outright. Some plants changed too.

It is a more dangerous world, supposedly, since they left twenty-two years ago. From what Cort read and heard the world was dangerous before the Visitors. Nations squabbled, postured, fought over resources, money, power. Now it was cities. People have always been cruel.

But not everyone. Cort put her hand on her satchel. Perhaps the package she carried will brighten somebody’s world. The man who paid her to deliver the package had nervous hands that clasped and unclasped as he talked. He asked for a guarantee.

“There are no guarantees,” she said.

“This must reach her.”

“It will, unless I’m dead.”

“Please don’t die.”

She took a bite of her sandwich. Her eyes shifted to the thin, open book in her other hand. She perused the notes for New Daytona. Three dangers lay ahead. Dogs. Poppies. Outriders. If she could get to the poppies before sunset, the dogs should still be in the western forest. If the wind blew less than ten miles per hour, the flowers wouldn’t be a problem. After the poppies, pay the toll to the iron patrol, give the password, enter the gate. The strategy for the Outriders? Pray for luck. There is no regular pattern to their movements. If you hear the deep throttle of their engines, hide.

Lightning whinnied. Cort jolted. She closed the notebook and missed the small entry in the margins about the danger of staying too close to the water as she approached New Daytona. She gulped the last bite of sandwich, swung the satchel over her shoulder, mounted Lightning, and continued her journey, keeping to the east side of deep hole to her south. She’d eat the apple later, when the job was done.

The miles rolled by quickly. Cort stayed close to the shore. Better to stay off the road. Roads held dangers lying in wait. She crested a rise and there they were, dressed in their yellow-orange glory, thousands of harmless looking poppies. When brushed these beauties released a toxin that put their victim to sleep. If you didn’t make it through to the other side, the sleep became eternal. A half mile beyond the poppies beckoned the glimmering wall of New Daytona. To the west sat the edge of the western forest. The sun rested above it.

She didn’t see the large, dark-green form snaking its way through the water toward the beach. Cort scanned the horizon. No dogs. No Outriders. To her right up a slight ridge was the road—the best way to travel through the poppies. She turned Lightning toward the ridge . . . water cascaded to the beach behind her . . . she turned . . . large open jaw, jagged teeth . . . coming toward her.

“Yah!” she screamed, yanked the reigns, and dug with her heels. Lightning jumped forward as the jaws snapped shut. Air and mist whooshed by. “Go, Lightning.” They climbed the ridge, a thump-thump-thump-thump close behind. Another snap of jaws. Lightning crested the ridge. Cort glanced back. The ridge had slowed the monster croc, but it now charged fast, closing the gap. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Cort made a decision. She directed Lightning off the road, into the poppies, hoping they could stay ahead of the toxin.

Behind, a deep, guttural rattle froze her heart.

Lightning pushed forward. “Come on, boy. Faster.”

Another rattle.

Keep going. She felt she was swimming in an undulating sea of yellow and orange that didn’t have an end. Wait a minute. Lightning had two heads. Cort’s eyelids became as heavy as ten-pound weights. She yawned. She thought, at least I’ll be asleep when the croc gets me. Her eyes closed. She couldn’t stop them.

When Cort’s eyes opened it was dark. A sound jolted her awake. A howl to the west. She breathed in chalky gritty dirt and coughed. She pushed herself up to her knees. Lightning stood beside her. Another howl, louder than the first, and a new sound from the same direction—the throttle of engines. Outlanders. Dogs. Had the outlanders tamed the wild dogs that roamed the western forest? That wasn’t in the notebook. She made her heavy body stand and reach for Lightning’s saddle horn.

Cort said, “We’re not there yet.” She pushed herself over the saddle and urged Lightning on. To the south, New Daytona was a bright beacon in the night. Half mile away.

The air rushed by. The roar of engines and yelping dogs sharpened her senses. She touched her holstered pistol. Still there. She reached back and touched the laser rifle (thank you, Visitors). Ten shots in the pistol, nine to ten on the rifle’s charge.

The city was still far away. The sound of whining and yelping and roaring engines became deafening. She saw her long shadow in front of her, joined by other long shadows on both sides. A new sound. Panting. She glanced back to see two dogs as big as Lightning, lit by headlights behind them, drool hanging from their open mouths.

A voice, magnified by a megaphone shouted, “Stop running. We will not harm you. We just want your coin, your weapons.”

Court had heard enough stories. She knew the voice lied.

Lightning slowed. He wheezed and foam formed on his mouth. One dog was so close she could see light glint off its dark eye. She pulled out her pistol and shot that eye. The dog yelped and fell in a heap of fur and dust. Metal crunched against metal as two bikes collided—hopefully more.

“Now you’ve done it,” yelled the voice. Gun fire erupted from behind her and the second dog on her heels went down in a heap. The beautiful sound of metal hitting metal followed. The voice said, “Damnit!”

Three more dogs surged ahead. The Outriders had a problem. Their pets were between themselves and Cort. Cort had a problem as well. She couldn’t let those dogs catch her. She faced forward. Daytona was closer. A stream of lights below the city wall took shape.

Lightning was laboring. She worried he might simply stop. One of the three dogs whined and pushed closer. The dog nipped close to Lightnings flank, the sound like a bear trap snapping shut. She fired. The dog went down, followed by more cursing.

The engines roared louder. New problem. The bikers would pass the dogs to gain a clear line of sight. She holstered the pistol, turned in the saddle and rode facing back. Lined up behind her were ten giant dogs, running with all they had. Behind them, thirty, forty headlights surged forward. She brought the rifle up the infrared scope to her eye. She chose a bike and fired above the heat signature of the engine. The bike exploded. Four or five bikes went down with it.

The voice shouted, “Holy angels above!”

Gun fire came back at her. Another dog went down.

She aimed and fired again. A man screamed. No explosion.

More gunfire returned. Lightning’s legs buckled, and he went down. Cort fell backward over Lightning’s head, tucked midair and hit the ground.

She rolled a good twenty feet before coming to a stop. Pain. All over. She stood, teetered, but stayed upright. Cort faced the Outriders. They had stopped, all kinds of barrels aimed at her. The dogs sat on their haunches. “She is in our jurisdiction. We have an agreement.”

What?

She realized that the Outriders were lit up. She could clearly see the scowls on their faces, the scars on the dogs.

A voice spoke through a megaphone behind her. “Ma’am.”

Cort turned.

There was a long row of trucks and cars, bright lights mounted above them. People with guns stood in the light.

“Ma’am,” said the voice. “Could you take a step forward?”

Cort looked down. At her feet was a thick white chalk line that went in both directions as far as the light touched.

She took a wobbly step over it.

“She’s now in our jurisdiction.”

“What about the protocols,” said the other voice.

“I have the toll,” said Cort.

“And the password?” returned the voice from the line of cars.

“Really?” asked Cort.

“Yup.”

She sighed and said, “New Daytona rules the world.”

“That’s right,” said the voice.

“Huh,” said the voice behind her.

There was a high-pitched whistle. The dogs stood. Engines revved. The Outriders left.

Cort fell to her knees.

Rosie Brown

123 Gator Lane

3rd Burrough

4th Quadrant

New Daytona

Rosie’s hands shook as she peeled the paper from the package and opened the simple cardboard box. Her hand went to her wrinkled mouth. “Oh no,” she whispered. Rosie pulled a card from the package. Written on it were the words “From Dickie.” Beneath the card was a heart shaped locket broken in two pieces, one piece attached to a simple chain, one held a picture of a younger Rosie with a young man. It wasn’t the man who paid Cort to deliver the package. A tear rolled down Rosie’s cheek.

Cort was uncomfortable. She asked, “Can I have some water?”

Rosie made no noise, no motion of ascent or otherwise.

Cort walked to the back of the shipping crate and poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher resting on a simple end table. She gulped the water down in three swallows. Better.

“What’s your rate?” asked Rosie, renewed strength in her voice.

Cort turned and dropped the glass. Rosie sat on her wooden rocking chair, the broken heart on her lap. She had a knife in her hands. “What . . .?”

“Dickie said he would send me the locket,” said Rosie. “After he . . . took it from Frank.”

“Don’t . . .”

Rosie plunged the knife into her chest. She said, “I’m sorry child.” Rosie’s head drooped toward her chest.

“I’ll get help,” said Cort.

“No!” Rosie took a deep breath as her head raised. “Take what money you need from the can in the second drawer.” She motioned with her head toward the only dresser in the narrow space. Her jaw clenched tight. Her knuckles went white. She pulled the knife out. Blood spread over her chest. Heavy breath. She said with spite, “Deliver the knife to Dickie.” Her head bowed as if in supplication and released her last breath.

Cort stood frozen.

She felt Rosie’s neck. She took the knife from Rosie’s hand, put it in the box, and put the box in her satchel. She went to the drawer and emptied the contents of the can. With the metal door closed behind her, Cort sat down on the iron landing outside Rosie’s crate. She looked down the street at crate after crate stacked high, and row after row of metal stairs connecting them. A tear rolled down each cheek.

Cort reached into her satchel. Her fingers found the smooth surface and pulled it out. She looked at its red skin, slightly bruised, a little nicked. Beautiful.

She took a bite.