We lucked out one more way. Trying to get the bullet out of that poor tribal’s spine, we made a mess of it—we weren’t exactly what you’d call skilled surgeons and we didn’t have any anesthesia but whiskey. Between being drunk and in agony, he started crying for his mom, and yelling that he hated Daybreak and wanted his world back. That caused one of those seizures Daybreakers have, and we tried to hold him down but he thrashed so hard he knocked off a hemostat, and bled to death before we could put it back on.
Meanwhile that runner was a thirteen-year-old girl, half out of her head from getting knocked down so hard, being held in the next room. When we went in to talk to her, she was sure we’d tortured that boy to death, and started babbling. We learned how they did their approaches to towns, that those first “representatives” were just there to estimate the population. If any town surrendered to their outrageous demands, great, they’d just take everyone as slaves, but more often they’d all go back to their tribal leaders or council or whatever it was called, and return in a massive surprise assault. The first group was supposed to be just a big enough force to make sure someone always came back.
We also learned that the tribals’ main body allowed the “representatives” forty-eight hours to come back, since sometimes a town would extend hospitality and they’d need the time before they could leave without arousing suspicion.
She also told us about what they did when they took over. Some little girls are sensitive about massacres. She was having seizures every few minutes, but she got it all out. Though she still has seizures, she’s sworn to the articles now, and one of us.
By that time it was three hours till dawn. She’d told us where their main body was camped.
Ruth had the key idea. We put together a team of our best bow hunters to go in first. The tribals were mostly city people, not many soldiers and probably no hunters, before Daybreak. It was nasty and grim, but their sentries died without making any sound, and then all of us rushed and killed the rest in their beds. Horrible, but better than the other way around.
Ruth’s genius idea was that we cleaned up their campsite, carried all those corpses back here, and put the bodies all in one deep basement, and filled in with dry dirt.
We’ve filled two more basements since. So far they always do things the same way. I’m guessing it’s—well, not exactly written out, of course, because they’re anti-literate, but it might as well be part of the Daybreaker Handbook, if there was one.
So locally, they are too afraid of us to try again—we’re the place where everyone disappears without a trace.
Chris asked, “That’s why you keep blackout, and why you don’t farm, too, right? You can’t let them have a way to count you. But in the long run, how are you going to keep eating?”
Scott seemed very pleased with the question. “We have a plan for that too, and in fact—”
“I wish you hadn’t told us so much,” Larry said. “What if one of us is captured?”
“One of you won’t be captured unless all of us are,” the old man said. “Ruth’s got a whole worked-out plan.”
“My plan,” Ruth said, “isn’t much more complicated than to get out while the getting is good; I worked out logistics in detail but the strategy is, run fast and be too tough for any tribe to take on. You brought me the last piece of the puzzle, just by telling us where you’re headed. Your plans fit beautifully with ours.”
“See,” Scott said, “the three tribes around us are the Miami Morning-stars, which ought to be the name of a football team, over to the east and southeast; the Day’s Glorious Dawn People, due south; and the True Gaia People, who are north and west. You went right through the True Gaias and they didn’t mess with you because they’re pretty weak and disorganized, after taking some poundings from other tribes around them. Now, we’ve got more than enough canoes—there were three canoe liveries in this town before Daybreak. We just go down the Auglaize to Defiance, and then on down the Maumee. If we go that way we’d only have to run through the True Gaias, and although they’d have the numbers to stop us, they’ll probably be too disorganized.”
“The Maumee should be fine,” Ruth added, “because it’s a wide river, hard to blockade, and it has enough current so we’d move faster in canoes than runners could alert the tribes, if any, in front of us. So that was always one of the main ways we were thinking of running, and if you’re going that way, we can be ready to go, lock, stock, and Wapak Scouts, at dawn tomorrow. We’ve furbed up enough canoes and kayaks to haul everybody, and had supplies packed to go for ages. Just tell us where the nearest base is up by the lake, or on the Maumee, and we’ll take you there.”
“Port Clinton,” Larry said.
“Then it’s a deal?”
“Definitely. These last few weeks I’ve walked all I wanted to, and the idea of going the rest of the way by boat—”
“You talked me into it,” Jason said, stretching. “I’m looking forward to getting back six inches of height.”
“Dinner!” a soft voice said, just outside the door.
“Coming,” Niskala said. “You’ll hear all about it later. Meanwhile, let’s just enjoy the night; it’s going to be one of the biggest things in the history of the Wapak Scouts. They were so sure you’d say yes, they’ve spent the afternoon putting our last council dinner together. Thanks for not disappointing them!”
They followed him across the street; the sanctuary of the old church had been stripped of its pews and filled with big tables.
The Wapak Scouts’ last feast before exile was one immense exercise in showing off. The entertainment afterward reminded Jason of his own days in the Boy Scouts—a number of silly skits, some recitations of amateur poetry that made Jason feel considerably better about his Daybreak bard phase, and group singing. He surprised himself by joining in and enjoying it. I suppose there’s a reason why they call it a “kumbaya experience.”
THE NEXT MORNING. WAPAKONETA, OHIO. 5:30 AM EST. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2025.
They rose in the dark. In the candlelit main room of the blacked-out church, the morning crew had laid out last night’s perishable and heavy leftovers. Everyone was urged to eat as much as they could stand and pack lunches into any spare space in their packs.
“I don’t know if this is the most disciplined bunch of enthusiastic people, or the most enthusiastic bunch of disciplined people, I’ve ever seen,” Chris said, tucking in his third sliced venison and fried egg sandwich.
“The real achievement,” Ruth Niskala said, beside him, “is that Scott and I and our officers will have enough time to eat. That is the proof of organization, discipline, and training. Scott always said any scoutmaster who knew his stuff could take ten boys anywhere, but a real scoutmaster could take ten boys anywhere and sleep in every morning.”
“Everyone is so excited,” Chris said. In the last year he’d mastered writing with one hand and eating with the other; he was filling up his fourth pad of this trip with what he thought might become one of the most popular articles in the eventual Post-Times series and book.
“Well, it’s a big, big event for the adults,” Ruth said. “Even more so for the kids—for some of them, Wapak’s the only home they’ve ever really had, and we’re as much family as they’ve got.”
Shifts moved through; it took almost an hour to feed everyone. “We thought about leaving at first light,” Ruth said, “but it’s dark down on the river—it runs between built-up banks and levees for the first twenty miles or so—and the main thing is to just not have any accidents to slow us down, so we can be past the True Gaias before they even know we’re moving. If they have to chase us, with them running and us on the river, we’ve got them beat.” She stood. “I’m going to get some of that yellow sheet cake; it won’t travel, and it’s too good to waste.”