FIFTEEN

The way I remember it, they didn’t teach us much history in Appalachia,” Abe said. “Doubt that’s changed.”

In Lynchburg, blinking against sunshine that he just couldn’t force himself to accept as real after all his time in the depths of the mountain, Mason had just followed Abe out of a set of steps from an electric train that looped around the city, just inside the walls. Boarding the train, he’d watched Abe swipe his right fingers once, then twice, past a post with sensors to pay for both their fares, explaining that for some items, a password wasn’t necessary because the purchase was too small and it was more expedient to let people move through as quickly as possible.

Mason wasn’t asking many questions, although he had plenty. Appalachia was a state where the size of towns had been limited to ensure crime rates stayed low. Here, he was in a city with people and streets and buildings crowded into a density that he would not have believed without walking through it.

Not that it frightened him. Or made him wish for Appalachia. He’d dreamed of this. A larger playground for a person of his appetites. No need to bow to religious leaders at every turn. Excitement and anonymity among throngs of people instead of standing out to be stared at in small cloistered communities where every movement was regulated for conformity.

But he needed to become as familiar with the territory as possible. So he tried to soak in what he could, occasionally craning his head awkwardly because his vision was limited to one eye. One thing that distracted him was all the advertisements with writing. Appalachia didn’t have advertising. And reading was outlawed.

Not that he cared much. Here, on large posters, scantily clad female bodies advertised products. He didn’t need to read to enjoy that. No wonder Appalachia didn’t allow this stuff.

As for learning more, on the train, Abe had been a nonstop tour guide anyway, pointing out items of interest to Mason. In this way, it was good that Abe had escaped Appalachia too. Anyone else would not have had the perspective on what Mason knew and didn’t know about the Outside world.

“School shoved too much history down my throat,” Mason grumbled in answer to Abe’s question. “Hated it.”

“That was history from Appalachia’s point of view,” Abe said, walking at a moderate pace, obviously relishing his role as a tutor. “There’s a lot you’re going to have to unlearn.”

“Not that interested,” Mason said. “Is that the apartment ahead?”

They were going to visit another Appalachian refugee. Mason knew he was in danger. Abe had been out of Appalachia too long to know Mason’s real identity. No guarantee that would be the same at the apartment.

“Lot of stuff happened in America during and after Water Wars,” Abe continued happily. “New national security measures that overrode any civil liberties. Reconstitutions.”

“Life is what it is,” Mason answered. After listening to nonstop babble on the high-speed from Lynchburg to DC, Mason just wanted the old man to shut up. Mason was irritated anyway. The sensors at the cash-free entrance to the train gates had not required a password. How could Mason get it off the old man until he watched him punch it in? “Knowing how things got the way they did doesn’t change the way it is now.”

“Doesn’t it matter to you how Canada became the new Saudi Arabia when water became worth almost as much as oil? Then lost all power because they didn’t have the national will to build an army to protect themselves and their lakes?”

“Nope. Don’t even care to know what Saudi Arabia is.”

“Destruction of the American economy when the automotive industry crashed because the refineries had been bombed by the Muslim extremists who took control of Great Britain?”

Mason thought if he didn’t answer, the old man would get the hint. It didn’t work.

“Automobile graveyards when gas got too expensive? Tent cities replaced by soovie parks during the massive depression that followed the Water Wars? The soovie uprisings? The building of the walls around the cities? When I got out of Appalachia, I discovered decades of missing history.”

“Just miss my friends,” Mason said, determined to shut up the old man. “Be great to find them.”

It was a short walk past rows and rows of medium-sized square apartment blocks. Enough to make Mason miss the neat streets and welcoming porches of the houses in the small towns of Appalachia. But only if he were sentimental. Which he wasn’t.

“Medium strata,” Abe explained as they neared the end of the rows. “Nobody wealthy lives in this area. Just Invisibles like you and me. But the Illegals can’t hide here either. Most everyone from Appalachia gets to this area first.”

“Who pays?” Mason asked. If Mason ever went back inside Appalachia, all this information would be worth plenty to Bar Elohim, the nation’s great religious leader.

“We’re like the early church,” Abe said. “Each of us gives as much back to the body as possible, easing the transition for whoever else makes it here. Once you’re settled in, you’ll get your chance to contribute and help other refugees. The important thing is not to dream about becoming an Influential. That’s impossible. It’s a closed system. Instead, remain grateful that you’re part of the invisible middle class.”

“Yeah,” Mason said. “Everything looks the same here. Which apartment are we visiting?”

Abe pointed at a mark on one of the doors. “Right there, of course. The fish symbol. Just like the early church.”

Mason saw a sideways double loop, with one end cut off. He guessed, with enough imagination, it could be a symbol for a fish.

“See,” Abe said, “the age of Pisces—that means fish—began around 210 BC, and Jesus took the sign of the fish as his main symbol, and Virgo the Virgin for—”

“Shut up,” Mason said. This was the place. He didn’t need to be nice to Abe any longer.

“Huh?”

Mason knocked on the door.

A young woman opened it, looked past Abe at Mason, and shrank inside, her mouth open in horror.

“It’s all right,” Abe said to her. “I know his appearance might throw some off, but—”

Mason knew it was more than his eye patch. He saw it instantly because he’d been looking for it—recognition. But she made the mistake of leaving the door open a second too long.

Mason shoved the old man through the doorway, into the apartment. Abe stumbled, caught his balance, and turned toward Mason. Leading with his left elbow, Mason drove it into Abe’s cheekbone. The old man didn’t even gasp. Just dropped. Out cold.

Normally Mason would have stopped to admire this. But the woman had fled farther into the apartment. She was his priority.