The train ride to Augustana had been, in Jack’s opinion, a complete bust. He tried to stand for the first hour, but was swung so violently to the ground by a particularly bumpy stretch of tracks that he resigned himself to sitting on the floor. He pouted for a bit, and, though no one was there to witness it, let out a groan and punched the floor. Jack was, deep down, hoping his outburst would somehow elicit some divine intervention that would smooth out these old, rusted tracks. He didn’t often think about God, except for when he had a problem that needed zapping away. God was, presumably, busy with other things, and Jack’s train ride stayed bumpy. 

It was hot, too, Jack made sure to add, as he wrote his first letter of complaint to his boss. He sat in an empty shipping container, and through the half-open door he could see great stretches of wide-open prairie. It was an emptiness unlike anything he had ever seen. It probably would have been a very breathtaking sight for him had the ride not been so rickety, the container not so hot, and a fly not been constantly flying past his ear. In fact, the state of these prairies– lush and green, not an irradiated wasteland like he expected– would have been integral information to send back to his boss, the first real insight of Jack’s reconnaissance mission. But Jack’s feathers were thoroughly ruffled, and he was not very good at his job. Instead, he complained:

Secretary Wompwine

Train is a nightmare. Too hot. Surprised it has not yet totally fallen apart. Please send a plane when I leave. If i have to take this back home before summer ends I will fry like a fish.

Yours truly,

Jack Fitzpatrick

Jack’s locomotive odyssey was almost over. The train neared Augustana’s only station, and he could see little patches of farms pop up near the horizon. For a few moments, he saw robed figures on horseback speeding towards a horse and buggy. Rifles hung around their backs, and as Jack lost sight of them, he heard pops of gunfire. He averted his eyes from the doorway as a chill ran through him. He was so far from anything he had ever known.

He was, until recently, one of the lucky ones. His country, born from the ashes of the devastating Carrington solar flare, was nearly functional, and functioned exceptionally well for the Fitzpatrick family. Jack was the youngest of six children, all of whom had coasted into reputable positions by way of their grandfather’s fortune. Sixty years earlier, as a world shrouded in darkness spun into chaos, Henry Fitzpatrick the First wasted no time revamping a steel mill for a world without electricity. Fitzpatrick the First’s ingenuity– which he attributed merely to his love of engine repair manuals and nearly unlimited free time after the Carrington calamity, not any real desire to help pave a new society– was hailed throughout a young New American Federation. Jack’s parents spent much of his childhood throwing lavish galas for the tiny circle which was the Federation’s aristocracy. Jack’s siblings had all entered high society, and now it was his turn.

The previous spring, when Jack finished his preparatory schooling, he had no jest for any particular line of work. The year or so that followed was a rotation of poolside lounging and Jack’s best attempt at athletic training. There was no match in particular he was training for, but in a similar fashion to many of his country’s directionless young men, he considered trying his luck at the Federation’s most popular sport: boxing. Jack was a terrible boxer. He entered one local match and promptly broke his nose. His parents decided it was time to pull some strings.

The only tug on the Fitzpatrick’s please-give-our-freeloader-son-a-job line was a desperate federal official, Jacob Wompwine. Wompwine was searching for a young man with a hankering for danger and thrill to, as he put it, carry out expeditions of great importance. The Fitzpatricks were not quite sure what this meant, but seeing as there were no other options, they told Jack that his bags were to be packed by the first of May. Jack made no protest when they told him, as he was half asleep on a pool floatie.

To Jack's horror, he would soon receive his real mission: Spend the summer in the city of Augustana, far away from the safety of the Federation, facilitating famine relief, collecting information, and fraternizing in the infamous Heartland Correctional Zone. Of course, his parents were not jazzed about Jack’s summering in a glorified gulag, but it would be quite a blunder of etiquette to back out from an agreement with a federal official, and would certainly affect attendance rates to the Fitzpatrick’s next philanthropic event.

Jack watched from the train door as little wooden homes, surrounded by cattle and cornfields, began to cluster together and stack on top of each other. As the train reached the city center, ladies in long linen skirts and blouses buttoned to their necks walked about a market, pushing little wicker strollers, haggling over the fair price of a red onion. The gravel roads were devoid of greenery, and as people walked and trotting horses dragged carriages, dust blew high into the air, coating every building in a sepia film. Jack was used to his luxurious world of diesel engines, light bulbs, and– if he was lucky– radio broadcasts. He looked to the top of what appeared to be streetlights, and found clusters of candles, each lamppost topped with a gold crucifix like an angel on a christmas tree. 

A brick wall suddenly blocked his view, and the train rolled to a stop. He waited a few moments, appreciating the stillness, before peeking his head out. Bright red brick peeked through the grime on the walls. The station looked old, older than the calamity, Jack assumed, as the tall, arched ceilings above him were totally incongruent with the wooden cabins he’d seen. He hopped out of the container. He passed a little glimmer on the ground, and turned back to pick it up. There was an old withered quarter in the gravel. 

In God we trust, he read. Twenty-twenty… he trailed off, trying to make out the last number. Three! 2023. It was sixty-five years old. Hardly worth the copper it was made of.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Men began to file into the station. Young and old, they all wore eggshell-colored button-ups, their collars a tight white band around their neck, their tiny wooden cross necklaces swaying as they moved. They hauled corn on their backs, loading it into the empty shipping containers. Jack sped through them, avoiding their glances, spotting the only woman on the platform. They locked eyes. She waved, beckoning him over.

She couldn’t have been much younger than he was. Her dress was like that of any other lady he’d seen from the train doorway– linen and billowy and high-necked, like that of a priest, with a tight leather belt at the waist. Her dark hair was pulled back into two braids, framing her blue eyes in a striking contrast. She fiddled with the crucifix on her necklace. Jack was suddenly overcome with nervousness. He tried to plan his introduction, but couldn’t get any further than “I’m Jack.”

“Come this way!” She yelled as he neared her, pointing to the station’s exit.

“I’m Jack!” He called back, immediately aware of how bizarre a response that was. A few men turned their heads to stare. The woman squinted at him.

“I know! C’mon.” She responded, standing in the doorway, yelling over the heads of a dozen cargo loaders.

They made it out to a gravel road lined with two-story buildings, all made of faded wood planks. There were no windows on the first floors, and iron grates lined the tall, slim window panes on the second. Some were homes, some were storefronts, some both– and most, Jack noticed, had little wooden watchtowers on the roof. Everyone seemed to live in their own miniature fortress.

“Hi,” She said in a low voice, as they reached a more secluded side of the building.

“Hello,” Jack responded, putting down his luggage to shake her hand, “I’m Jack,” He repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” She laughed, “and so did everyone else.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why– That just kind of came out of my mouth,”Jack’s shoulders relaxed, strangely at ease, “You’re Idie, right?”

“No, I’m Lily.”

Jack tensed back up.

“You’re not Idie?”

“No. I’m Lily.” She repeated.

“I was supposed to meet Idie,” Jack tried to hide his panic.

“She sent me to pick you up, I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear–”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“She was never going to pick you up. I’m sure she probably said a lot of things that weren’t totally true,” Lily spoke slowly and softly, like a teacher to a child, “She’s not Augustinian, it wouldn’t be good for her to come here.”

“She’s not Augustinian?” Jack flailed his hands with every word. He had totally avoided the possibility that his mission had not been planned to a tee, that every contact wasn’t totally vetted, or that any thrillingly dangerous situation could possibly take a turn for the worst. His impenetrable armor he had built up in his head was beginning to crumble.

“She was. A long time ago. She lives down in the ozarks now, with some Turings. That’s why she was able to communicate with you. They’re much more reckless with technology.”

“The Turings? The computer people, right?”

“Sure, the ‘computer people’.” 

“So you know Idie? Like, you’re in close contact?”

“Of course,” Lily’s eyes looked heavy, “She’s a good friend of mine.” 

She looked away for a moment, inspecting the street around them, making sure no one had come within earshot. Jack fidgeted anxiously, digging through his pocket for something to fiddle with. He pulled out a small disposable camera, pointing it towards a bustling saloon.

“Put that thing away!” Lily hissed, yanking it from Jack’s hand and hiding it in her skirt.

“Woah! Chill out!” They competed for the sternest whisper.

“Why would you bring that?”

“I’m on a cultural expedition, the whole point is to take notes and photos!”

“Did Idie tell you nothing?”

“I– y’know, I’m starting to think that may be the case. She said Augustinians were ‘apprehensive about electronics’.”

Lily put her head in her hands.

“Oh boy,” She muttered, “Sounds like Idie sugar coated some things. Makes sense though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told her I’d give her a portion of whatever aid she could pull from you. So she might have been a bit of an eager beaver.”

“An eager beaver?” Jack was incredulous. “Jesus Christ–”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Lily interjected.

“Sorry.”

“Apologize to Him, not me. We should get out of here, I’ll show you where you’re staying–”

“So no camera? At all? It's a disposable one, there’s no screen or anything.” Jack interrupted.

“No cameras. No batteries, no wires. Nothing,” Lily paused, her voice now barely audible, “We had a bad harvest a few years back– sorta like this year– and everyone got paranoid. Searched houses to see if anyone in particular was bringing bad favor upon us.”

“Favor? Like, from God?” Jack breathed back.

“From God, yes. Marjory Lee got hanged ‘cause she had an old paper scanner.

“Really?”

“Yes. She didn’t even know what it was. She used it as an ottoman.”

“Jesus.” Jack felt a bit queasy.

“Again, with the cursing–”

“Shoot– sorry, I’m sorry.” Jack put his hands on his hips, looking out at the gaggles of Augustinians walking down the road. Young mothers gossiped as they strolled down the street, their cheeks flushed with an obvious red rogue. Leather boots crunched the gravel road below them, and young children in shapeless linen gowns trailed behind, shouting and playing, one in particular pleading with his mother to carry him. Lily explained that it was nearly lunch hour, and the streets would soon be flooded with hungry working men on the hunt for street food and a pint. As men in stained blouses and black trousers began to emerge, street fiddlers vying for tips performed on every corner. It was hot, and dusty, and life seeped from every alleyway. Lily pulled something from her pocket.

“Put this on.” She said, revealing the necklace in her palm. Jack held it in the air for a moment. Black thread, wooden cross. He pulled it over his head.

“Sharp,” Lily laughed, “But we’ll have to get you a different blouse.”

They walked on, and as Jack entered his third minute of complaining about his train ride, one of Augustana’s most daring criminals was at large across town.