Eden

By D. A. Howe

Sheriff Eden Ward lives in the town of Sodaville. People look after each other in this small community. Everyone has a job and their own home. There is no pollution, the threat of global warming has vanished, and the environment is thriving.

Paradise has been achieved at a cost. The government periodically culls the population using a manufactured disease.

Desperate to save her daughter from a terrible death, Eden goes on the run.

Hunted by the government, Eden tries to avoid capture while driving across the empty landscape of the former USA and meeting the dangerous inhabitants of an underground network trying to find a cure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. A. Howe
• Release date: May 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9780473604875

Book preview

Chapter 1: Sodaville

Eden’s new boots sank into the muddy clay surrounding the open grave. She resisted the urge to move her feet and concentrated on Officiant Mackenzie’s eulogy.

Maggie Thomas brought her parents great joy during her short life. She was Lisa and Richard’s sixth child and was loved just as much as her brothers and sisters. Lisa and Richard hoped that she would grow and have her own children. But this was not to be. This is as Nature intended.

Eden had first heard the words at age four, when she’d attended her first funeral, and now, thirty years later, Mackenzie was still reciting from The Power of Nature. His role was to provide the community with continuity and comfort, and he’d done an admirable job, even as the years turned his hair the dirty-white color of unshorn wool.

A basket, woven from river cane, sat on a makeshift altar. Mackenzie stood in front of the altar and gestured to the contents: a small bundle of wheat, a container of water, an apple, a dead rabbit, and a jar of buzzing flies. A sapling stood beside the altar, its roots protected by sackcloth.

Wheat for bread. Water for life. Fruit to remind us that life is sweet. Meat to keep us healthy. Insects to clean the remains of the dead. We must never forget that everything is as Nature intended. We must never forget that Nature controls who lives and who dies.

As Nature intended, intoned Eden and the mourners.

Lisa brought a hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs.

None of us are immortal, said Mackenzie. We will die. Some sooner. Some later. As Nature intended.

As Nature intended, repeated the group.

Mackenzie took the basket and dropped it into the grave, where it came to rest on a small wooden coffin. Two men, each holding a shovel, filled the hole from the mound of freshly dug soil. The clods of mud pattered on to the coffin. The sound reminded Eden of rain falling on a roof.

Mackenzie picked up the sapling beside the altar and handed it to one of the men. This pear tree was gifted by Maggie’s parents and will be planted on the grave, as is our custom. In time, it will grow and provide us with fruit. It will provide shelter from the sun and a place for birds to nest. When it dies, it will provide fuel for fires and keep a family warm. Now go about your day and remember baby Maggie, and the joy she brought to this world.

The eulogy over, people walked away, intending to head back to Richard and Lisa’s house for the post-funeral reception. Richard gripped Lisa’s arm, encouraging her to move even as she verged toward collapse.

Mackenzie packed up the altar, placing the items in a large duffel bag. Eden watched the mourners leave before she approached him.

Off to another job?

Unfortunately, yes. There’s been an outbreak of baby cough in Charleston. I’m heading over there for a funeral tomorrow morning.

I didn’t know people still lived in Charleston.

Got two families up there despite the lack of decent land. I think DeeCee’s going to relocate them in a couple of months.

Back here to Sodaville?

It’s the biggest place in West Virginia, said Mackenzie.

A man in his late thirties joined them. Hey, old timer!

Matt, he’s got enough on his plate without you calling him old, said Eden.

He’s not exactly wrong, said Mackenzie. Where were you? The sheriff and accountant are obliged to attend funerals.

Sorry. Got held up at the Corrigan farm. They’ve doubled their output this year and counting the hay bales, the tobacco, and the animals takes a while.

I’ll let you off, said Eden with mock sternness. But don’t make me report you.

Matt grinned at her and tipped his hat. No, ma’am.

They wished Mackenzie a safe trip before heading towards their vehicles. They’d parked them on the edge of the enormous expanse of trees known as the Orchard. It was a place of combinations; mature trees mixed with trees in their first year of fruiting, along with the saplings. The older trees bore the scars of names and initials cut into their bark. The saplings were strung with wooden signs that displayed a name, date of birth, and date of death. Ribbons hung from branches and fluttered in the light breeze.

As always, Eden walked a less direct route, through the long grass to an apple tree.

She stopped, put her hand on the bark and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of bees flying among the blossoms.

Is this the year you finally carve his name? Matt removed his hat as a mark of respect.

It’s against the law. And the sheriff needs to set an example.

There’s the law, and then there’s the tradition. Besides, if you really believed that you would have arrested half the town by now.

That’s fine talk coming from the town’s accountant.

He put the hat back on his head, grinned. I’m just the official pencil pusher. I get more leeway than you.

Eden patted the trunk of her tree before continuing their walk.

Laughter bubbled along the row. A family had stopped at an older, much taller apple tree. Five children and two adults held hands, encircling the trunk. It was a local tradition for the younger ones, designed to ease their minds about death. They were told that the tree absorbed the deceased and kept them safe, and that the tree loved to hear children playing. Adults knew that the first part was true, and the second part was not.

The Orchard ended at a grass verge facing a dirt road. The road bore two deep grooves that had been gouged out by the wheels of buggies and wagons.

Eden and Matt’s pickup trucks were parked on the side.

Most folk regarded the vehicles with suspicion, preferring to make do with traditional modes of transport. A pickup was too fast, prone to problems, and as one farmer had pointed out to Eden many times over, horses could keep walking in the dark. The folks in her town preferred the slower, more predictable pace of life.

Matt opened the door to his truck and stood on the running board to check the roof.

Solar panels are dirty again. He grabbed a rag and a canteen of water from the back seat. I swear I clean these things every week and within two days I’m barely charging the power bank.

I get the same problem driving on back roads. Dust kicks up and the panels get clogged. Just remember to keep wiping them down. I have a schedule. As Matt cleaned, she asked, You coming over to dinner next week?

I never say no to free food and a chance to talk with the Ward women.

And remember I need to go over the figures.

He wrung out the rag and threw it back on to the seat. Then he climbed in the driver’s side. The joys of being a small-town sheriff! Oh, and I love your new boots. The mud suits ’em.

She laughed and waved as he drove away. She got in her own pickup, then checked the power indicator. It would be embarrassing to be in the same predicament. The indicator displayed a seventy percent charge, more than sufficient to get her home.

Eden pulled away from the Orchard. It took up many acres and, according to local legend, it had existed for centuries.

That’s the way it had always been in Sodaville, and DeeCee hadn’t said anything different.

The next morning started as it always did. At four, Eden swung her feet out of bed and made her way downstairs. She cranked up the lantern and fed the kitchen stove with coal. Slipping on her boots and clutching the same lantern, she made her way to the outhouse and relieved herself. After that, she walked to the bathhouse where she stoked the fire that warmed the bathing water. Back inside the house, she heated an iron on the stove before using it to remove the wrinkles from her uniform. Once finished, she went back to the bathhouse with the uniform and hung it inside.

The bathhouse had two water barrels, one metal and one wooden. Steam rose from the water in the metal barrel. Beside it, the wooden barrel brimmed with cold water. Eden turned on the tap near the base of the wooden barrel and filled the kettle which sat beside it. She poured the cold water into the basin before going to the metal barrel and half filling the kettle with hot water. She drizzled it into the basin and tested the water with her little finger. It was warm. Eden scrubbed herself with a washcloth before filling the basin again with clean water and rinsing off.

Dressed, she scooped fresh water from the rain barrel on the side of the house. Inside, she carefully tipped the water into a kettle and set it on the stove to boil.

The rooster crowed at the first sign of light.

She set a pot of water on the stove. She sliced day-old bread, placed the slices into a metal grill near the open door of the stove, and held the grill near the flame. When they were lightly toasted, she stacked them on a plate. Then she placed three eggs into the pot as the water bubbled. Finally, she wrapped ham sandwiches with cloth and tied the paper with string.

The kettle whistled, and she placed a linen-wrapped teaspoon of chicory into her mug and poured in the water. She did the same for the two other mugs on the kitchen counter.

At seven, Mary and Addie stumbled downstairs. Mary, at fifteen, was old enough to get Addie out of bed, then dress her sister, as well as brush and braid Addie’s hair.

Good morning sleepyheads. Eat your breakfast.

The girls sat at the table. Addie looked at the mug.

There’s no milk today, said Eden. Haven’t had a chance to pick any up. The icebox is out of ice and you two aren’t keen on drinking spoiled milk.

Addie made a face and drank the chicory without further comment. She hurriedly ate her eggs and toast.

Can I say hello to Barney now?

He’s not a pet, said Eden. She said it every morning, but her wide-eyed eight-year-old never tired of the visits.

I know, Mommy. Can I say hello?

Mary sighed and rolled her eyeballs in a teenage expression of annoyance. You’ve seen one wolf, you’ve seen them all.

You loved seeing him when you were younger, said Eden, teasing her eldest daughter.

I was a little kid.

It’s five years, not a lifetime.

Mary shrugged.

Come on, said Eden, Let’s get moving or we’ll be late.

She took Addie’s hand and opened the back door.

The wolf visited every morning before Mary and Addie left for school. The animal stood there, the gaze of its yellow eyes alternating between the chickens in the backyard, and the humans. A fence kept him out, so too did the barbed wire Eden had strung across the top of the fence. It wasn’t unusual for deer, elk, bears, bison, and skunks to wander into people’s yards when presented with an opportunity. Sometimes it included the occasional cougar and wolf. A fence was considered a prudent investment.

Eden had formed the opinion that the wolf thought the chickens might be an easier way of getting a meal. Although why it had persisted for five years remained a mystery. It clearly had other food sources, otherwise it would be dead by now. She thought it might have been kicked out of its pack. Either way, it seemed peculiar he found the house and its occupants compelling enough to stay in the vicinity.

She held Addie’s hand as they walked over the small lawn, past the outhouse and bathhouse and through the garden. A mixture of practical and pleasing, the garden contained roses, fruit trees, and seasonal vegetables.

The wolf sat on the ground, unmoving and silent. Addie pulled herself free to run to the fence. Eden, as she always did, reflexively reached for Addie. Addie had been told never to stick her fingers through the fence, but it didn’t stop the primitive part of Eden’s brain reacting to the closeness of a carnivore.

Addie giggled as she got closer.

Eden shouted at her. Be careful!

Addie slowed and stopped, a few inches from the fence and the wolf. Through the gaps, Eden watched the wolf’s tongue roll out of its mouth. She’d never figured out whether the wolf wanted to lick Addie in affection or taste its next meal.

Addie laughed. Eden shook her head, put her hand out again.

Time for school.

They walked back up the path and into the house. It was time to leave. The children picked up their school bags and the coats from the pegs by the door on the way out. They piled into the pickup truck and Eden started the journey.

She always felt ambivalent about using a powered vehicle. It was convenient, but it also stood out. Still, it was the only advantage of her job. If she’d had to make her rounds on horseback, she’d be permanently traveling.

Eden kept her eye on the road even though she’d driven this way for years. The main route in and out of Sodaville consisted of more repairs than original road. Volunteers filled the potholes and cracks with gravel and tar to keep the roads open, but it was an unending maintenance battle.

The previous summer, a herd of elk had run in front of a wagon driven by Joyce Kranski. The horses bolted, the wagon hit a hole and overturned. Joyce was killed.

Two miles from town, she passed the Stack. The chimney loomed over the countryside; fifteen hundred feet high—as high as a hill. It could be seen for miles. She’d never seen smoke rising from it and never seen the padlocked gates open. One of the sheriff’s tasks involved checking for trespassers, but in the entire time she’d been doing her job, there was never anyone on the other side.

Addie chanted the familiar rhyme from the Stack clapping game. Eden had learned it at school, as had her mother and grandmother and who knew how many before them. No one understood what it meant but saying the word below caused the players to collapse on the ground with squeals of laughter.

Stack not smoking, I’m still growing. Stack on fire, things are dire. Stack smoke blows, we’re below.

Eden turned the truck off the main road and over the strip of gravel that led to the local school. The total roll was one hundred children, ranging from five to seventeen. Eden pulled up in front of the entrance, out of the way of the hitching posts reserved for horses.

It was too early for the other children. DeeCee mandated that schools opened early to accommodate single parents. Eden was currently the only one in Sodaville.

Have a good day, Mommy. I hope everyone is nice to you, said Addie. She leaned over from the back seat and gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. She and Mary got out of the car.

I love you, said Eden.

A teacher waited for them at the top of the steps. Eden watched her daughters enter the building before turning the truck around and making her way into the center of Sodaville.

The sheriff’s sign consisted of a wooden board hanging from the veranda of a brick building. The paint was peeling, and the chains showed signs of rust. It occurred to Eden that this summer she should find someone to renovate it.

Before unlocking the door to her office, she spared a glance at the square chunk of slate propped up on an old wooden box. She’d tied a piece of chalk to the box, and the townsfolk were welcome to write notes on subjects that needed her attention.

The slate was blank, except for a layer of chalk dust.

Inside, she stoked up the small potbelly stove and brewed a pot of chicory. She sat at the desk.

The job of a sheriff was mostly welfare-based. Major crime was rare. She’d never seen a burglary, let alone assault or murder. The families and citizens of Sodaville were doing well. Food supplies were more than adequate, the adults were working, everyone had housing and clothing, and there was accessible transportation for most folks. There was a theater, a blacksmith, a tack maker, regular visits by traders with news from other states, a smaller printing press, and a telegraph office for official business. The town even had a medic that knew how to take care of a broken bone or a tooth ache.

She didn’t have to worry about people’s physical needs. Instead, she ensured people kept on good terms and feuds didn’t get out of control. Things were generally quiet, but every so often a teenager played a prank and upset the town. Then she’d be running mediation sessions for a week.

The pot boiled. She poured herself a cup and returned to the desk. There were three trays stacked with paper, along with a set of large journals. Battered filing cabinets lined the far wall of her office. Someone came over with a covered wagon from DeeCee every two months to pick up the latest files. A month later they returned. Every seven years she’d throw the older files out.

She opened the thick journal sitting on top of the pile. It contained her work-related activities for the week. There were one or two items a day that required her attention, plus the usual round of visits to farms and members of the community. There had been nothing of real note since old man Scott dropped dead from a heart attack in the middle of dinner. She’d attended to the widow and filled out the death certificate. Scott’s oldest boy inherited the farm, as expected. Widow Scott continued to live on the farm with the other children.

The only scheduled item for the morning was a visit to the diner. Martha Ledbetter had complained again, and the affair needed delicate handling.

Eden stood up, put on her coat, and left her shotgun behind in the lockbox.

The walk to the diner was quick. It was on the other side of the street, three buildings to the right. Jared and Susie Jesperson had inherited Sam’s Place from their parents, and the diner had been in the Jesperson family for generations. No one knew who Sam was anymore, but they assumed he’d been a relative from the old days. Sam’s Place had a row of booths that ran along the length of large windows. There were nine seats at the counter for those that wanted to eat their breakfast minus the view.

In one corner sat a beat-up upright piano that no one knew how to play except for Jack Turner, one of the old timers, and his son, Jerry.

Eden walked in.

Jared was visible through the hatch in the back wall, hunched over the grill. He set a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages on the counter, dinged a bell, and yelled out, The usual for Dan.

Susie, the only other person working in the diner, picked up the plate and swung it over to an older man in a pair of overalls. Dan said thanks and liberally covered the eggs in ketchup that he spooned from a jar. Then he shoveled the combination into his mouth.

Jared watched Dan and called through the hatch, Every time. You want to at least taste my eggs before you smother them?

The old man waved at him to dismiss the argument they’d been having since Jared first began cooking. Jared sighed. Then he caught sight of Eden from the hatch.

Are you here to get breakfast or give me grief?

Neither. Came by for a talk.

He rolled his eyes. Fine. Lucky I’m over the breakfast rush. That plate was the last one until eleven.

Come on out and we can talk.

Susie sidled up to Eden as her husband walked through the swinging doors from the kitchen. Do you want to speak to both of us, or just him? Otherwise, I can set to cleaning.

I’ll let you know. How’s baby Cole, by the way?

He’s fine. I just put him down for a nap.

Next time I’m over, I’d love to see him.

Susie nodded before resuming her chores and Eden settled into a booth.

Jared was six feet tall and twenty-four years old. The apron around his waist was covered in grease stains, and the bandana around his head wasn’t much better. He removed both items and sat on the scuffed red leather seat.

You want chicory or something? said Jared.

I’m good, said Eden. I drank a cup before I came over.

Am I in trouble?

No. Needed to pay a visit to see how you were after that complaint from Martha.

That old biddy should have asked me. I would have given her a refund.

You know how Martha is. She can be a grouch, but you still need to be respectful.

Martha’s only success was making it to her seventies. She shouldn’t get points for luck.

Eden reached across and gave him a light smack across the back of the hand. That’s the kind of talk that gets a person labeled as a loner.

I’m sorry. He rubbed the back of his hand. You could be nicer.

Be glad I didn’t bring my shotgun.

He picked up his dirty apron and sweat-stained bandana. I get it. Don’t hassle old people. Fine. I can do that.

Susie swung by, filling up the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl. She swiped her husband over the head. You’d better.

Stop physically abusing me, both of you.

Eden smiled, wriggled her way out of the booth. I have to get to my next appointment. I’ll come by tomorrow for breakfast.

Look forward to it. Just don’t bring Martha.

At least he still had a sense of humor. She strolled out of Sam’s and headed towards the accountant’s office. Matt usually brought the figures over, but it was a pleasant day and a stroll in the fresh air never hurt. Besides, she’d be cooped up in her office for the rest of the day trying to complete paperwork. DeeCee liked their numbers. How many people died. How many babies were born. How many acres of farmland were productive. How many crops were harvested. It was important to keep up with their demands.

Matt’s office also had windows that faced the street. A sign on the veranda announced they’d arrived at the accountant’s office. The one peculiarity was the picture of a bottle on the inside of the window.

Six years after Forrester’s disease destroyed everything, Sodaville turned into a place where most people in the surrounding states wanted to live. The cities were deserted for smaller towns and fertile soil, and Sodaville’s founder, Tony Albergo, moved in, renamed the town, and gathered survivors into his newly formed community. The town was named after Tony’s old job, the one he held before the disease struck. The history books noted that Tony filled vending machines for a living. A drawing showed machines filled with bottles. The textbooks noted the wastefulness and impracticalities. A machine specifically designed to dispense flavored water at any time of the day or night showed the height of civilization’s selfishness.

Tony painted the picture of a soda bottle on the office window as a joke. It had been carefully maintained ever since, even though no one knew what the words Coca-Cola meant anymore.

Matt was visible through the window, seated at his old wooden desk, hunched over a set of ledgers. Filing cabinets and stacks of paper crowded his office. She tapped on the window to get his attention before she entered.

He looked up from the large book and laid his quill pen on top of the desk. Rubbed the back of his neck.

Didn’t mean to disturb you, said Eden. But I was passing this way. Thought I’d pick up the figures myself.

Matt pulled a face. You know, I need an excuse to leave the office.

She glanced at the ledger. Pages were lined with columns and each column contained numbers.

Next time, I promise to bring you a snack from Sam’s Place, she said.

If you do that, I’ll never get out of here. He picked up a piece of blotting paper and pressed it over the fresh ink. Here’s your copy for the month. The numbers don’t vary most days except for the twins on the nineteenth. Nobody died. Food production is the same. Available water the same.

DeeCee likes it when things are stable.

Don’t we all. Anything else planned?

Not right now.

Wish I had your job.

Matt picked up his completed original and filed it in an overflowing cabinet.

Eden headed out, carrying the current accounts ledger. You’d be bored talking to people about the rules.

He laughed, pulled out a new book, and started labeling columns.

Chapter 2: Jack

The world had officially gone to hell in a hand basket.

He’d hoped cooler heads would regain control, but the rapid decline of civilization had left him confounded. In the early stages of the epidemic, the national security team evacuated the President and key government officials to a bunker with air filters and enough supplies for a decade. It was unfortunate that they’d sealed themselves into the bunker with the Secretary of State’s asymptomatic wife.

What was left of the government spent their time grappling with the loss of skills and talent in society. Technology fell over faster than anyone predicted. Jack advised them to search for anyone with skills that didn’t rely on electricity. Locating someone who knew how to use a printing press turned out to be as easy as finding a hundred-dollar bill lying on a New York pavement.

Even worse, a terrorist attack had blown up the CDC in Atlanta, thus reducing their chances of finding a cure to zero.

No one had predicted that the decline of civilization was less like a straight line and more like circling the drain. With nowhere to go, most people never left the cities. The elderly, people with limited mobility, and families stayed where they were. Dystopian novels, movies and television shows had always assumed people would flee for their lives, but in reality, most of them stuck around, hoping for a return to normality.

Besides, trying to walk across roads blocked with cars and encountering people riddled with disease was as dangerous as encountering the violent and insane roaming the streets. Neighborhoods pretended that the sudden change in lifestyle was a temporary blip. They just needed to wait for rescue. The last time the TV worked, the people on the news said help was coming. Yes indeed, it was just a matter of waiting, and praying, and everything would be fine.

Authority figures such as law enforcement and the military vanished rapidly. Helping the sick made them sick. The survivors ran home, locked their doors, and saved their ammo.

Surprisingly, crime plummeted. Those with criminal tendencies looted, stole supplies, and then reduced their numbers by murdering each other with abandon. They forgot about basic hygiene, and the crowded living conditions resulted in cholera and typhoid outbreaks. Yet another ancient disease banished by modern civilization oozed its way out of the sewers. The gangs and cartels who thought they’d clean up in a crisis dropped dead.

The small enclave of survivalists and preppers found that in a real emergency, staying alive was a full-time job. The videos they’d religiously watched online were of variable quality. The advice was frequently wrong. The suicide rate was high.

The only upside in the mess was the fact that the CDC managed to activate the Stacks as the body count climbed exponentially. With the Atlanta base labs gone, Jack and his team had managed to position staff at each Stack, and they tried to manage the waves of the dead and dying, while simultaneously conducting research.

At least he’d done that. Good old Jack Forrester. He’d been the one pushing for Stack construction for years. Rumors of biological warfare had been circulating for decades. Didn’t it make sense to be prepared?

Passing the protection bill had been a close-run affair, the deciding votes cast by Deacon Murphy and James Hayden, two members of Congress who’d been sympathetic to his point of view.

Fully automated and well-stocked, the Stacks could continue to operate. He estimated the disease would circulate for years, popping up at unexpected times. By providing a means of efficient body disposal and caring for the infected in one place, the Stacks would prevent a terrible situation from turning apocalyptic.

Jack had only one regret. The media had named the damned disease after him, and it stuck. Maybe because he’d spent so much of his life as a doomsayer, preaching that