Angels of Vengeance

alone.

Looking ahead, Miguel could see the ice-flows on the Missouri River float beneath the Heart of America Bridge. The bus was the only vehicle not powered by muscle that was crossing at the moment. Everyone else walked, rode a bicycle or used a draft animal of one type or another. The smell of droppings reassured him in an odd way. It was as familiar to this old vaquero as his coat.

The skyscrapers, on the other hand, were not. As cities went, Kansas City did not boast a large skyline, yet perched on a high rise above the river, the buildings still dominated the landscape for miles around. They were a mix of modern glass and steel with a leavening of concrete structures that Miguel thought may have been built in the 1930s. They looked like the sort of thing you saw in old black-and-white movies. The tallest of them, a more recent glass and steel monstrosity, still featured a large gash in the side near the top third of the structure where a plane had buried itself on Wave Day.

The only one he could readily identify by name was the Federal Court House, a barrel-like design with a large bank of windows that faced north, towards the direction from which they had travelled. Many of the endless interviews with the federales had taken place deep within the heavy stone walls of that building. At first, Miguel had viewed it as a symbol of stability, of order and hope. Now as he looked on the sand- coloured structure, the court house seemed to be the very embodiment of crushing futility.

He did not have long to gaze at the skyline. The bus turned off towards the River Market, passing the former warehouses, now loft apartment buildings, in one of which Sofia was probably nursing a cold rage at this very moment. The vehicle came to a stop a block or two short of the mid-week market and unloaded its passengers.

As he walked beside Maive Aronson, deep crevices of worry creased his already rumpled features. He found himself thinking often of Maive lately, and finding succour in those thoughts. Uncomfortable with where that might lead, he shook his head, forcing himself back onto practical matters.

‘Have you spoken recently to the investigators?’ he asked her.

‘Which ones, Miguel? There’ve been so many of them since we got here. They all ask the same questions, over and over again. I wonder some days why they can’t just compare notes.’

He had no answer for that, because he’d been thinking the very same thing almost from the moment they had presented themselves and their story to the first federal authorities they came across. The venue had been a humble sentry hut guarding the entrance to a militia training ground, formerly an airfield, near the ghost town of Grandview, south of KC. Miguel soon lost track of the number of people he had talked to since then about the attack on his family, the actions of the road agents he had witnessed in Texas, and the trials they had borne to escape the clutches of Governor Blackstone. That was how he described it: ‘the clutches of Blackstone’.

The agents and investigators didn’t always want to hear the truths he had to tell them, but then it was not his concern that the truth as he knew it was ugly and inconvenient for them. He knew that Maive was giving them the same accounts, and so was Sofia. Adam had taken many dozens of photographs with which to corroborate their tales of bloody murder and perdition down in the Republic of Texas. In addition, Trudi Jessup, a government employee, one of their own people, had verified everything. Yet they still didn’t seem to accept, or want to accept, the truth of what had happened. These were ‘isolated incidents’, the investigators told him. Unfortunate events. The frontier was a dangerous place everywhere, they said.

Miguel shook his head in frustration. He wished Trudi were with them now. For a government woman, she was akin to an angel. She had been such a good friend to them, not just on the trail, but after they’d finally made it to KC too.

He cast his mind back to early August, to the morning he arrived at the cafe in the River Market for their weekly breakfast meeting. They were falling into the routine of city life by that time. Sofia had settled, uneasily, into the notion of becoming a ‘Northtown Hornet’ at the high school. He was working. They had the pleasure of routine, meeting Trudi and Maive every week to ‘catch up’, as the women called it. That particular day, the barista greeted Miguel with a sad look, and handed him a note: Trudi was gone. He knew it before he opened the slip of paper. She had been transferred back to Seattle, with immediate effect; no time even to say her goodbyes.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Maive asked, bringing him back to the cold reality of this stark winter morning.

‘They are worth less than that.’

‘They’re worth something to me,’ she said gently.

They reached a corner and waited as a small convoy of military trucks, gears a-grinding, rumbled by. The troops in the back looked wet and miserable, as though they had been out in the weather all night.

‘You know,’ said Maive, speaking up to be heard over the engine noise. ‘There were times when I wanted to tear my hair out talking to those migration people. Honestly, Miguel, it was like they were investigating you, not the road agents. But don’t worry. I told them I would go straight to the press, to the Huffington Post, if I thought for a moment they were trying to cause trouble for you or Sofia. I know that Trudi said the same thing. I think that drew them up short - the idea that they might have to account for the fact they’d let a bunch of rapists and murderers run wild in their precious Mandate. I think it might even explain why they transferred her so quickly.’

They set off again as the trucks rumbled away down the street, belching dark smoke from their exhausts.

‘You might be right. But thank you,’ said Miguel. ‘It must have helped. When we first arrived, I thought they might send us back to Mexico. Or, what is left of her.’

The chill seeped in through his clothes as they walked. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets but it did not warm them much. Icy gusts of wind picked up wet leaf litter that slapped against his legs, sticking to his jeans and boots. He took in the trees that lined the streets. As in many other places, nature had surged into the void left by the disappearance of humanity. He marvelled at the vibrant blue-green specks of moss that grew on the bark.

As they drew closer to the markets, there were more people in the streets, often carrying bags like them, backpacks and sometimes wheeled trolleys, all obviously intending to load up with groceries for a few days or more. There were very few cars, however. Vehicles were readily available and, with the right sort of effort, they could be made to run again. But even a healthy car would never get far without gasoline, which only the government seemed to have enough of these days. Although many businesses received a weekly ration, it was never really enough.

No, for people like Miguel and Maive, ordinary people, it was the bus, walking or horseback. He and Sofia still had the horses on which they’d fled the homestead. But most days his mount, Flossie, grazed in a field across the road from the apartment the government had given them. For the last few weeks, the horses had been stabled because of the poor weather.

He could smell the markets now. Not just livestock, but the tang of fresh herbs and greens, expensive at this time of year, because they’d come out of local greenhouses. One trailer by the entrance offered halal meat roasted on spits for the Pakistanis and anyone else who was interested. The salty sweet tang of kettle corn churned in the cold air with roasting nuts, coffee and mulled wine. As always, a small crowd had gathered around the entrance to the River Market. Another makeshift trailer was set up there with two giant steel pots steaming and slowly bubbling away, tended by a Canadian family, nomad Quebecois, whose mulled wine was a favourite with the locals.

‘I wonder if I might tempt you with just one cup this week?’ Miguel suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief. They both knew the answer already.

‘It doesn’t matter that the alcohol has been cooked off, Miguel. I still cannot drink it. It’s against the rules.’

‘So is drinking coffee, according to that crazy man this morning.’

‘That’s a different rule,’ said Maive. ‘A silly one, best ignored.’

Still, they waited in line while Miguel bought a paper cup full of hot, spiced wine for himself. He wasn’t entirely sure where the wine for the pots came from. Perhaps they made their own locally. Or maybe it was salvage - always ‘salvage’ in this country. The gringos were living off their own dead. Looking around in the chill air, he couldn’t imagine that the area was good for grapes, though. Trudi Jessup could probably have explained it. She had led him into wine drinking on the journey up from Texas, although he imagined she would be horrified to find him drinking something like this. Trudi took her wine, as well as her food, very seriously.

‘After this we can see about a cup of hot cocoa perhaps?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, why not.’