Plague Riders

By Gabriel Goodman

Shep Greenfield is a plague rider. When his parents disappeared after an attack on their home, he agreed to deliver medicine for the sinister Doctor St. John. The doctor runs the camp of River's Edge with cruelty and total control. But the pills he makes are the only hope people have, now that the doomsday plague, nightpox, has hit Wisconsin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lerner Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781467730747

Gabriel Goodman

Gabriel Goodman is a writer living in St. Paul. He has written for previous Darby Creek series, including the Surviving Southside series and the Bareknuckle series.

Book preview

Melech.

CHAPTER ONE

E

veryone looked up in awe whenever the plague riders came to town.

Shep sat atop his horse, Old Gray, and looked down at the people alongside the gravel path that followed the river. No matter what they were doing—tending gardens, scrubbing laundry, cooking over open fires—everyone stopped to watch the two horses canter along the riverside. Sometimes, people cheered. The plague riders meant help was on the way.

Wrapped from head to toe in mismatched cloths that left only a slit for his eyes, no one could see Shep grinning back. He liked the attention. He liked the respect they paid, with nods and waves. It made him feel important, needed. The feeling was a luxury. It wouldn’t last long. Once he got back to River’s Edge, he would be reminded of what he really was: a glorified delivery boy.

Mariah, the horse matching Old Gray’s pace to the left, whinnied. Shep turned to find Cara, his co-rider, pulling gently on Mariah’s reins. Like him, she was unrecognizable under layer upon layer of protective cloth. He could tell by the way Cara’s head slumped forward that the summer heat was getting to her. But the cloths were necessary. Nightpox was highly contagious. They knew the rules. Doctor St. John himself had spelled them out: if you come back from a plague camp and you’re sick, you’ll be left outside to die.

The town was just one of the dozens of makeshift colonies. They had sprung up along the river when the nightpox struck and sick people were driven out of the larger communities. Like the other camps, it took its name from what was there before the Fall. This place—the remains of a boathouse and supper club—called itself Muddy Waters, after the supper club’s old name.

Shep knew that about forty people lived here, most of whom were bedridden. Muddy Waters was one of the nicer places he rode to. Some of the other settlements? Not so much.

As they approached the boathouse, Shep slid expertly from his saddle. Cara, who’d only learned to ride a month ago, struggled to dismount. When he moved to help her, she swatted his hand away. He waited patiently as Cara dropped to the ground, then tied the horses to a railing on the nearby dock.

Shep grabbed the weathered leather saddlebag that hung off Old Gray’s side. He knocked on the boathouse door and waited. A moment later, a portly woman in dusty clothes answered. Mrs. Adams was the closest thing Muddy Waters had to a mayor. Anyone who wanted to deal with the town dealt with her.

Mrs. Adams offered a curt nod, her face hidden behind a bandana. Good to see you, Mr. Greenfield. Thanks for coming so quickly.

Tall for fourteen, Shep was often mistaken for an adult when covered in his protective clothing. There was no way twelve-year-old Cara ever would be. Anyone could see she was a child. This was by design. Doctor St. John picked his riding teams carefully. He knew that even though the area along the river was filled with bandits, most of them wouldn’t attack a child.

Most. Not all. They’d been lucky so far.

Mrs. Adams stepped aside to let Shep and Cara into the boathouse. Inside, it smelled like murky water and rotting timber. At what was once a checkout counter, she poured them each a small glass of rust-colored water, part of the agreed-upon price for their services. Cara peeled open a mouth hole in her face wrappings and downed it. But Shep politely declined. Everything worked more smoothly if people thought he was an adult. He nodded to Cara to drink his glass too.

Shep opened the saddlebag and spilled its contents onto a nearby coffee table. A halfdozen translucent brown pill bottles clattered across the countertop. A whole month’s supply, he said, doing his best to deepen his voice. Just like you ordered.

Mrs. Adams frowned at the bottles. That last batch didn’t seem very potent. I think Doctor St. John’s been holding out on us.

Shep swallowed. Mrs. Adams was usually easy to deal with. You’d have to take that up with the doctor, he said, trying to hide the worry in his voice. I just deliver the pills.

Mrs. Adams didn’t stop scowling. With a grunt, she pointed to a corner and a big burlap sack, filled to the brim with bright green corncobs. You give me a month of medicine. I give you two months of food. Hardly seems fair.

Sorry, Shep said, hoisting the sack up onto his shoulder. Doctor St. John sets the prices.

Hey, Shepherd. This guy looks like you.

Shep stopped at his partner’s voice. He turned to find her staring at the wall where a series of picture frames hung. He didn’t know people still hung pictures on the wall. Cara’s eyes were fixed on a small oval frame. As Shep peered through the dim light, a ripple of recognition tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. He set the bag down and leaned in