8 DAYS LATER. ON THE WABASH, ABOUT A MILE AND A HALF NORTHEAST OF THE FORMER DARWIN, ILLINOIS. 11:42 PM CST. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2025.
Ecco constantly told
himself that the five days he’d spent so far on the Illinois side
of the Wabash wasn’t cowardice or procrastination. Arnie Yang had
worked out pathways around the known areas where others had died or
been lost, away from the farms and little towns that had been
attacked, which Ecco had memorized; the map was as clear in his
head now as it had been back in Pueblo.
He’d made it to the
Wabash in two days, and started by observing the big bridge at
Mount Carmel from a safe vantage point in the ruins. Three hours of
steady, patient watching had revealed at least four watchers on the
other side, all focused on the bridge. They’d all been relieved at
regular intervals. Whatever was over there, it was organized.
Between sunset and
moonrise he’d departed the charred wreckage of Mount Carmel and
headed north. The next morning, from the east-facing upper window
of an apartment over an old carriage house in Patton, his
binoculars had revealed two different five-person patrols, one in
the early morning and one in the afternoon, on the far side of the
river. They were dressed like thrift store barbarians or Conan the
Hippie, with spears, hatchets, and clubs. He’d slept through most
of the day and departed, again, in the dark.
He’d moved farther
north and east, staying close to the river except for a long trip
around the burned-out area opposite Vincennes. Moving only when it
seemed safe, watching the east bank constantly, he’d found every
standing bridge watched, every dock and landing burned and blocked,
and patrols no more than a few miles apart. He had to hope Heather
was right that this was a tight barrier but not a thick one, so
that a few miles on the other side of the river the land would be
mostly empty, because if it was like this for any distance inland,
he didn’t think he had a prayer.
Under the trees in a
wooded bend of the river, just upstream from the ruins of Darwin,
Illinois, he’d spent the day establishing the key facts with
binoculars. The landing directly opposite him, a little cut-out
docking pool, had been blocked with logs and the dock itself
burned, but seemed unguarded. No bridges spanned the swift current
for several miles downstream, so if need be he could float for
miles while he looked for a safe, inconspicuous place to come
inshore. Cover was abundant, with at least a few hundred feet of
trees on each side of the river. About a half mile downstream a
narrow, slow side channel, well-wooded on both sides, sliced the
other side. If he missed that side channel in the dark, he had
miles more distance and hours more time to land among
trees.
Tonight the moon
would rise almost two hours after the end of twilight, more than
time enough to float to the other side, with extra time to try to
move far enough east to be beyond the Daybreaker patrols. He’d
crept down in the dusk and verified that there was a hole maybe
twenty feet across by a dozen feet deep where he’d be able to slip
in quietly.
Faint stars glowed
above the trees on the opposite bank. Time. He descended to the
hole. Too bad there’s no way to take a boat
over; I hope the jars keep my powder dry and I don’t need the gun
too quick. He made sure that his gear was roped to his
waist, and then swiftly whipped five old pillowcases, one at a
time, through the air, over his head, and into the water, and tied
them off. He pushed off, floating on his back, head held up by his
pillowcase float, and his bag of supplies resting on his
belly.
I look just like floating debris, he thought.
Please, God, I look like old junk that washed
into the river. Anyone who sees me will see I’m just a pile of
floating crap. He’d lined up three stars and two trees with
distinctive shapes downstream; if he could manage to kick his way
into the current between them, he’d be in the side channel he was
aiming for.
The warmth of the
water was pleasant; he’d grown up in the Rockies where running
water is freezing cold all year. In the humid night, low fogs, some
only a foot deep, drifted along the surface, cloaking
him.
He kicked hard but
kept his legs well under the water. Fogs rolled across him,
darkening the river to a void except for the stars directly
overhead; then a clear patch would roll by and he’d catch sight of
his stars and his target trees.
When trees were on
both sides of him, he turned over. His feet found the muck at the
bottom of the shallow channel. His foot caught in something and
pulled his head under for an instant, but he shook loose, waded a
few more steps, and found a pebbly, rapidly rising surface. Trying
not to splash, he waded with his pack held above his head until he
was waist deep. At last he stepped from a patch of sloppy muck
between the tangled roots of a cottonwood, and put both feet on a
muddy bank. Checking the stars, he walked due east.
Something slammed the
back of his head. As he stumbled, his head was pushed down and a
rope wrapped in three quick turns around his neck.
There were so many of
them.
He tried to lie down
and make them kill him, but they just shoved a spar between his
elbows and back, and pulled him to his feet.
“Stephen Ecco,” a
voice said, behind him. “We were wondering if you’d ever find the
courage to come over the river.”
Four big men lifted
him by the spar on his back; the pain was bad enough if he went the
way they pushed him, and agonizing when he didn’t cooperate. They
ran him that way, hour after hour, as more tribals joined the group
and took turns holding up the spar. At dawn, his feet felt like a
bloody mess, but thrown onto his face in the dirt, he couldn’t
really inspect them.
As his cheek pressed
the damp dirt and he lay where he had been thrown, one thought
drove him to keep testing his bonds, looking for any direction in
which they might loosen: Someone had betrayed the mission. He had
to escape and tell Heather.