2
THE SINGING BRIDGE
Gray clouds still stretched to the horizon when they left the house the next morning, seeping the color from everything around them. The rain had stopped hours ago. Darwin and Teresa walked their bikes behind the rest of the group, comfortable in letting Darby lead them down the long driveway to the crumbled ribbon of highway. What was left of the concrete strip had already dried in the brisk winds. They went at least another quarter of a mile before turning down another driveway covered in a canopy of leaves.
He’d seen this pattern before. When Wally and Carlos had rescued him from the pack of dogs and wanted to hole the next morning, they had walked blocks away from the house they’d stayed in. They said it was to hide their location from the Qabal. Darby was doing the same thing, which meant she planned on going back to the farmhouse. Never letting your enemy know where you spent your nights was a good policy.
Two of Darby’s group sat down to create the hole. Darwin closed his eyes. He could feel the Threads moving through the air and being manipulated by the Threaders, though his perception of what they were doing had changed when he lost the ability to See. He’d always thought of a hole as a tunnel from one place to another, but with his lost Sight, it felt more like a door than anything else. He could sense the frame being built, sense the texture of the closed door. Just before the first person stepped through, he felt the door open, and an ice-cold draft brushed his face.
He might not be able to use Threads anymore, but the abilities that Baila had somehow passed on to him helped him know that things were going on. He wasn’t sure if he would have known it was a hole if they hadn’t told him they were building one, but the sense of a door seemed so solid and so strong. Was it actually the Threads that had given him that feeling, or was it his own mind that had created it?
Darby’s people walked through first. It seemed as if they just disappeared into thin air; one second they were there, and the next nothing, as if they had never existed. He walked toward the hole. Even though it was invisible to him, he could still feel it and knew exactly where it was. He waited for Teresa to enter. She disappeared a split second before he stepped in, feeling the familiar cold snapping at his lungs and freezing his breath. It was a feeling he would never get used to.
Even though he knew no one was following him, instinct made him step out of the way on the other side. He didn’t sense the hole being closed, but more of an absence of something that used to be. It was interesting, because when the others had walked through it he hadn’t felt anything. There was no sense of the person disappearing. Was it because the person didn’t actually disappear? Really, they just moved from one place to the other. Maybe he was just expecting too much.
They ended up on another old highway, fields of tall grass covering the hills on both sides. Three lanes stretched to the south, and across a collapsed concrete barrier, another three lanes led north, filled with the rusted hulks of abandoned vehicles left as their owners rushed to leave the city, back when it must have felt like the world was falling apart.
Darby pointed down the highway. “If you keep heading that way, you’ll get to San Francisco in about five hours. There’s a couple of bigger cities in between. I’d say your best bet would be to take the first road west until you hit the coastal highway. It’s not in great shape, but the people you’ll meet there will be a lot friendlier. It’ll add a couple of hours to your ride. We need to head back. We’ve missed our check-in by ten minutes and I’m sure they’re already starting to panic. Safe journey. I’ll tell people that I saw you and where you are, what your plans are. Chances are you’ll see some of us along the way. We’re pretty busy along the West Coast in Southern California. Salem keeps making forays in and we’re doing our best to keep them out, trying to stay ahead.” She shook Darwin’s and Teresa’s hands and stepped backward into the hole her people had already made.
The sky had turned from a cloudy gray to a bright, clear blue. He could see a bank of clouds to the west, most likely hugging the coast until the heat of the day dissipated them. They got on their bikes, looking for the first exit toward the distant clouds. Darwin felt suddenly alone, surprised at how much he had missed seeing people he knew. They had left people before, people they had gotten to know and trust, but this was different. These were people that he had fought beside, that had put their lives on the line to do what was right.
Some of them had died to get the job done.
That made all the difference in the world. It felt as though he had left family, that family had left him.
Teresa looked over and examined his face. “I feel it too,” she said. “That’s why we’re going home. We need to ground ourselves again.”
The undamaged half of Darwin’s face stretched into a grin, her words making him feel better about their destination, and she smiled back.
“It looks like it’s downhill most of the way. It shouldn’t be a tough ride.” She picked up the pace and slid in front of him, and they rode single file down the highway looking for the exit.
Darwin dipped his toe into the cold water of the Pacific Ocean and jerked it back out. The water felt more frigid than a hole. He brushed the sand and dirt off his feet and pulled on his socks and shoes again before clambering back up the rocky slope to the bikes.
“Cold, right?” Teresa asked.
Darwin grimaced.
“I told you so. You shouldn’t have done it.”
He stuck out his tongue at her, trying to hide his half-smile, and got back on his bike.
Even though they’d taken a back road to the coast, the amount of people they saw had increased. Now that they were on the coastal road itself, signs had started appearing around neighborhoods advertising restaurants and stores. These weren’t the signs from before the Threads had come to this world, these had been hand-painted on wood boards and strapped to posts and trees along the side of the road.
Based on Darby’s description of what Salem had done to the places they’d visited, it was easy to tell that Salem and the Skends had never been here. Artisans had booths set up at intersections, their shelves laden with everything from wood carvings and leather goods to kitchen utensils, and the smell of fresh-cooked seafood wafted through the air, making Darwin’s stomach rumble. Everybody they looked at smiled back or at least watched them without malice in their eyes. Seeing communities thrive always made him feel good, and he whistled a blues tune as they rode. After nine months of traveling, they had become pretty good at telling what kind of people they were approaching. Usually before the people even saw them. It had turned out to be a valuable skill more than once on the road. These were good people.
As they pedaled along the highway, the ocean obscured by hills and trees, Darwin relaxed into the ride. Although he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the country, it always felt right when they entered civilization—especially like this. It was an affirmation that most people were good and kind.
The small communities rolled into a continuous stream of houses and shops, all of them spaced apart with well-maintained gardens between them. If there was a word he could use to describe it, he thought it would be affluent. They’d traveled through a lot of cities and towns, and none had given him the feeling of richness like this one. He didn’t know if they used money here, or if everything was barter based, but whatever system was in place, the people here were well off.
Darwin’s stomach grumbled again. Breakfast had worn off, and they were well past a normal lunchtime. Teresa, riding beside him on the wide street, laughed.
“I heard that,” she said.
He stopped his bike at the side of the road and pulled two wrinkly apples from his trailer, tossing one to Teresa. She caught it in one hand. “This will tide us over until we find a place to stay for the night.” He bit into it, surprised to find the center still a little bit crispy. Somewhere off the main road a child squealed in laughter and he smiled as he ate. They finished their apples and washed them down with a bit of water before continuing the ride toward San Francisco.
The road ahead dipped back into a valley and the houses grew farther apart. As they began to coast down the slope, they could see the bay just off to their left, waves sparkling in the sunlight. With the city so close, they’d agreed to call it a day. They didn’t like staying in bigger cities—the higher concentration of people usually brought out the worst in them—but it would take at least another day or two to ride through the sprawling mass they were about to enter. They kept their eyes open for a small park or a path to the ocean, knowing that tonight would consist of a cold meal and a light sleep. Tonight, and the next few nights, they would be in alert mode. There wouldn’t be a fire, nothing that could draw attention to them, and they would sleep wrapped in their sleeping bags rather than zipped in. It made it easier to get out fast if they needed to.
They pulled into a tiny patch of overgrown park land just as the sun started to set, riding their bikes into the middle of a clump of bushes. Each took a different path to make it less obvious someone had come this way. When they stopped, Darwin went back and lifted branches back into place on both trails. In the dark, it would be enough to hide the fact that they were there.
Trampling down a spot beside the bikes, they settled in for the night. Teresa opened a can of creamed corn and pulled two spoons from her backpack, handing one to Darwin. He dipped his spoon in and scowled before putting the slimy mixture into his mouth. He’d hated the stuff since their walk from Gaston to San Diego so long ago. The memory of the partially frozen concoction almost made him throw up. The corn slid down his throat and he coughed before putting the spoon back in the can for more as Teresa tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back a grin. They finished without talking and Teresa cleaned out the can with her finger, getting every last drop. It was a small meal, but it would get them through until morning. There had been times when they’d had less.
The wind picked up overnight, blowing in from the ocean and across the bay, bringing with it low-lying clouds and fog. Darwin and Teresa both woke up at the same time. They were almost packed before they heard a hum fill the air. It wasn’t consistent, instead changing pitch and tone like a musical instrument. If that’s what it was, it was nothing they had heard before. The sound grated on Darwin’s nerves, but Teresa seemed to enjoy it, cocking her head to try to locate the source as she smiled.
Though the sound was soft, it was still loud enough that they wouldn’t be able to hear if anybody approached their little hiding spot. It was time to move. They finished rolling up their sleeping bags and stuffing them back into their bags before putting them into the bottoms of the trailers.
The first part of the ride was out of the small valley and they stretched their muscles as they pedaled up the sometimes gentle slope. As they crested, the bay opened up in front of them, covered in a swirling mist that hid the water below it like a living creature. The Golden Gate Bridge emerged from the coiling mass like a monster from old seamen’s tales.
Darwin and Teresa stared at the bridge as it swayed in the gusting winds. Loose strands of cabling swung wildly, banging against supporting posts and what was left of the road that once crossed it, creating a twanging backbeat for the song the wind created.
The speed of the wind changed. Across the span of the bridge, the harmonies swelled and expanded, creating a symphony of sound that sometimes assaulted the ears in an array of disconsonant sounds, and at other times came together in musical harmony that drew wonder from the both of them.
Darwin tensed, suddenly aware of people standing behind him, and he twisted to watch as they approached. The looks on their faces matched what he saw on Teresa’s. She stood as still as the wind allowed, her eyes half closed as the bridge’s melody washed over them.
The singing bridge of San Francisco had gained a reputation that they’d heard of on their journeys, but he hadn’t expected anything near the majestic sounds that he was hearing. Even the grating he had felt earlier had disappeared as the music rose from the mist, sinuous and clear one moment, harsh and grating the next. Movement on the giant span made him squint and stare into the distance. People walked along the broken beams that had once held concrete, sometimes hugging the loose cabling and swinging across gaps above the cold water below them. Occasionally they would stop and listen, cocking their entire bodies as if to isolate a single sound. As one, they would move to a section of the bridge and rotate a slat along the bridge’s edge.
Teresa leaned over, whispering into his ear. “Did you hear it?”
He shook his head. “Hear what?”
“The people on the bridge. They’re changing the tone, they’re changing the music.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I thought you were the music lover? Listen again. The wind blowing across the slats is what’s creating the music. The bridge is the instrument, and they’re the musicians. It has to be something they do every time, because the wind changing speed will change the tone. They’re the players in an orchestra, they’re the ones that help the bridge sing.”
Darwin closed his eyes and listened again. If he tried, he could hear the changing tones, but they didn’t create a cohesive sound that he thought of as music. To him, the bridge sounds were, though sometimes beautiful, a random collection of notes that didn’t tie together.
A distant shout replaced the discordant tones and his eyes snapped open just in time to see one of the loose cables slap into the side of a figure on the bridge. The impact pushed him sideways, dangerously close to the edge. The thin fog cleared for just a moment, and Darwin saw arms flailing for the moving cable and missing. The fall to the water was silent, and the returning mist swallowed the body. He didn’t hear a splash. The others in the group continued their work, and this time when they made changes, Darwin thought he heard the change. The tone had become more mellow—somber—as if the loss of one of their own had made the bridge’s mood change. No one on the hill seemed to notice what had happened.
As the sky brightened, the mist rising from the water burned away and the people working on the bridge returned to land. The music still swelled and bellowed with the wind, but it was no longer controlled by the members of the orchestra.
A man spoke from behind Darwin, surprisingly close. “This is your first time.”
Darwin jerked away, automatically putting his good side toward the stranger. “First time doing what?”
“Your first time hearing the bridge. We can tell. All of us,” he swung his hand back at the group on the hill, “Have heard the music and become enraptured by it. You can tell when someone hasn’t heard it before. It’s the way they stand, the way they stare and lean forward. Some just turn and walk away, hearing nothing but noise. Others, like you two, can hear the music in varying degrees. A very few,” he stared directly at Teresa, “can truly hear the work of the orchestra.”
The group began descending the hill to the south. The man’s gaze followed them.
“We come up here to listen to the music before we put any food into our stomachs,” he said. “We have more than enough to share. Would you like to join us?”
Darwin delayed answering, giving Teresa a chance to interject.
“Oh, yes. We’d like that very much. I have questions about the bridge, about the people working on it.”
“We can answer those. In fact, the musicians on the bridge may be joining us.” He held out his hand. “I’m Paul, by the way. And you are?”
Darwin hesitated for just a moment. “Lloyd,” he said. “And this is Teresa.”
“Well, Lloyd and Teresa, the food isn’t spectacular, but it’s good enough and there’s plenty of it. Come on.”
Paul led the way down the hill. Teresa followed behind him, walking her bike down the hill, while Darwin’s pace slowed, his forehead crinkling in thought and pulling his burn scar into a white knot. It wasn’t like her to jump on an offer like that. It was as though the bridge and the music had lowered her defenses, had made her willing to trust more than she would—should—have. He wanted to catch up to her, to ask her about it, but with Paul so close, he decided to wait. In the end, he trusted her judgment.
Darwin had taken to not using his real name when talking to people. It was different enough that recognition was too easy. For the first part of their journey, just mentioning his name would send looks across the faces of the people he was talking to. The looks would range from anger to horror to adoration or reverence. He was never sure what the response would be. So he’d started calling himself something else . . . until he realized that people calling out a strange name never got his attention. He’d be walking down the street with Teresa and somebody would go hey Eddie, and he’d ignore them. He wasn’t Eddie, that wasn’t his name, they weren’t talking to him. Teresa would mumble something and he’d realize Eddie was the name he had given them. So he did the simplest thing: he used his last name. It was something he instantly recognized, so he didn’t have that hesitation, and people didn’t get suspicious.
Paul trudged down the hill, not trying to catch up with the rest of his people, letting Darwin and Teresa maneuver their bikes as they entered the deeper shadows.
Darwin and Teresa squeezed their bikes and trailers onto a ferry to take them across the bay. The floating platform was clearly homemade, seemingly from whatever scrap wood the builder could find. Water seeped in through overlapping and badly fitting seams, and the waves felt like they would topple the flimsy craft at any time. The fact that it floated at all was a miracle. Despite that, everyone seemed comfortable on it, as if they used it every day. Six men, three to each side, grabbed the oars and pulled against the oarlocks. The ferry moved forward slowly, fighting the gusting wind and choppy waves as Darwin’s stomach churned. They reached the other side after what felt like an eternity, wet and cold. They entered the city and its rolling streets.
Half an hour after they had gotten off the floating disaster, Paul pointed to an opening in a wall. It looked like the entrance to a fortified compound. Walls made of old tires, blocks of concrete, shattered brick, and whatever else they could find had been built, at least seven feet tall. Embedded within the material around the entry were some of the massive cables from the Golden Gate Bridge, woven between the tires and concrete. It must have taken them months to move the monstrosities, each easily three feet thick. Right by the entrance a commemorative plaque lay buried in amongst the rubble wall. Each person as they entered the compound touched just below it and then their forehead. Paul did the same. He glanced back as Teresa and Darwin hesitated.
“You don’t need to do that. It’s okay. Come on in and enjoy breakfast.”
Teresa smiled and surged forward, not even looking at the plaque as she passed it. Darwin glanced at it. Though it looked old, it had been scrubbed clean, and the words The Golden Gate Bridge stood out clearly, followed by a list of names. Under the embossed metal, a polished piece of wood with more names carved in it was attached to the wall. It was the wood they had touched.
Once they were inside, he noticed the entry to the compound was gated. A massive section of wall had been placed on wheels and could be moved to block anyone from getting in . . . or out. The amount of manpower needed to build the gate and wall were impressive, but what bothered him was why they thought they needed it.
“How many of you are here?” he asked.
“We have a hundred permanent residents,” Paul said. “During peak times, it can go up to about a hundred seventy-five or two hundred. We can hold double that, but we’ve never gone to full capacity. You know what they say, plan for the future. Every year we get a handful more, so we might as well have room for them.”
Darwin nodded. “What do they come here for, the music?”
“That’s part of it. We offer respite for the soul, a peaceful place where you can sit and rest before moving on. Twice a year we have special celebrations. In fact, one is coming up in a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, what are you celebrating?”
“The first turning on of the Source.”
Cold settled in the pit of Darwin’s stomach. He always thought twice about dealing with any religious sect, but one that had a seven-foot wall with a massive gate and worshipped the Source made it even worse. He grabbed Teresa’s bicycle seat, bringing her to a stop. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a quizzical look. He moved up beside her, whispering as Paul walked further ahead.
“I don’t like this place.”
“Why not?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the wall. “That, and this is some sort of religious cult with that bridge and the Source intertwined. It doesn’t feel right.”
Teresa smiled and patted his hand. “Relax. The only thing weird here is the bridge. A lot of people celebrate the turning on of the Source. Heck, even in Chollas we had a little bit of a party. It’s a very common thing.”
“Yeah, but in Chollas, did you have a wall around your community? A gate that could be shut in seconds, and a religion wrapped around it all?”
Teresa smiled again. “SafeHaven had a wall. I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s not the first time that we’ve stayed with religious people. It’ll all be fine. Besides, if there was anything really bad here, your friend Darby would have warned us about it.” She moved on, following Paul, and Darwin reluctantly trailed after her. Despite her words, he still felt uncomfortable.
They were instructed to lean their bikes against the outside railing of an open-walled structure. A well-maintained roof overhead shaded the area on hot summer days and kept the rain off when the weather turned. Fireplaces had been built around the exterior, all of them facing inward so they could throw their heat inside. This morning, none of them were lit. In the center of the structure a kitchen had been constructed, and long wooden tables stuck out like spokes from it. The ground had remnants of green and blue paint, worn off by the passage of time and feet. Only one of the two massive central fireplaces were lit, and the wet paper bag smell of oatmeal wafted through the area. Darwin grimaced. He’d never liked oatmeal. The problem was, if you were careful, oats stored very well. You could grind them into flour, turn them into oatmeal. You could put them into breads. They had too many uses to not be one of the most common meals.
Paul served them a large bowl each, and one of the cooks threw in a handful of nuts and dried apples that had been soaking in water. The heat from the kitchen fire made the center of the structure stifling, and Paul moved to one of the outer tables. As they passed the other people eating, most of them looked up and smiled and nodded their heads. It wasn’t to the visitors, it was to Paul.
“So you’re in charge here?” Darwin asked, still feeling trepidation from just being there.
“In charge? No. But I lead these people in prayer, along with a handful of others. There are six of us who delegate the work to make sure we have food on the tables and the kitchens are cleaned, that everyone has a safe place to sleep. As I mentioned before, we’re a community. We work together to make sure everyone has a safe place to stay.”
Darwin nodded and sat on the other side of the table from Paul and Teresa, where he could keep an eye on the bikes. As he ate, scraping the oatmeal off his spoon with his teeth, Teresa riddled Paul with questions about the bridge.
Darwin tuned them out.
The people around him looked comfortable and well maintained. Most of the men had beards and wore dark pants with button-up shirts. The women almost all wore long dresses that went down to their ankles, their hair up in a bun and covered by a bonnet.
He and Teresa were the oddballs here. They hadn’t washed since before Gaston, and the dirt from the road and the trails they’d ridden on clung to their skin and clothes. All the mist and rain had done was embed the dirt into the fibers. Yet no one gave them a second look. Darwin plucked at his shirtsleeve, the stained material staying tented even after he let go. They had clean clothes in the trailers, and it would be nice to get some of the grime off of his skin. Paul must have noticed. He pulled himself from his conversation with Teresa.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” he said. “Rest, take a bath, get your clothes washed. We’ll even resupply you a little bit if we can. The only thing we ask is that you chip in with some of the daily work.” He laughed again. “It seems that one of the most despised jobs besides cleaning the latrines is sweeping the streets, so if you wouldn’t mind doing that you’d make more than a few members of the congregation happy.”
“Well, of course we would,” Teresa said. “Thank you so much, it would be nice to get into some clean clothes. If you like, I—”
The sound of feet pounded across the pavement outside and into the open-air dining area. A young boy stopped beside Paul, panting and struggling to catch his breath. It was obvious he had what he thought was important information, but he waited until the man turned to look at him before he spoke. Darwin thought he saw agitation in Paul’s face before it was replaced with concern.
“I’m sorry to bother you at breakfast,” the boy said. “We found Andy.”
Paul shook his head and his shoulders raised slightly.
“Andy, sir. He fell off the bridge this morning.”
Paul stood, pushing his almost-finished bowl of oatmeal away. “Is he in the infirmary?”
The boy nodded.
“I will see him right away.”
Teresa stood, running out after him, and Darwin trailed behind.
“Do you have a healer?” Teresa asked.
Paul shook his head as he ran. “We have two, but they haven’t completed their training. Our main healer left last week on a small sabbatical. We don’t tend to get much more than minor injuries, and the students should have been able to handle it all until she gets back in a couple of weeks.”
Teresa kept jogging with him. “I was just going to tell you I’m a healer. I’ll take a look if you like.”
Paul grinned and picked up his pace. “Blessed be the—” His voice stopped abruptly and he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze flicking to the burned side of Darwin’s face. “Blessed be,” he said again as he continued on.
The infirmary was small for a community that sometimes held up to two hundred people. Darwin had expected more than the three beds sticking out from the wall. The middle bed contained a man lying in wet clothes. He looked unconscious and still in the unmoving air. Two young men hovered over him.
The moment Teresa entered, she was all business. “Is he still breathing?”
One of the men nodded.
“I asked if he was still breathing. When I ask you a question, I’m not going to be looking at you. I’ll need to hear the answer.”
Both of the healers-in-training glanced at Paul before answering. “Yes.”
She reached for the wounded man. Darwin could feel a shift in the air currents and the temperature in the small space went up. She was healing. Even though he couldn’t See the Threads, he knew that she had started.
She glanced up at Paul. “He’s hurt really bad. I don’t know if I can save him.”
Paul stood quietly by the door. Teresa refocused on her patient.
“You two, cut him out of his clothes. Dry him off . . . gently. I’ll start with healing some of the internal wounds. And get another bed ready so he stays dry.”
The two listened to her without hesitation this time. When they were finished, she leaned over the still form and her eyes unfocused.