The auction on the courthouse steps took nineteen minutes and cost less than a week’s worth of scavenged copper. I moved back to Appalachia out of desperation, flushed out of the cities, too old to find high paying work, too tired to keep paying rent and just breaking even. I found the cheapest place I could find, a small rusted container on half an acre for 1,000,000 crypto, a steal by typical pricing.
A guard-drone hovered like a vulture made of chrome and tired conscience; its lens flicked over the faces of us gathered—mostly poor bidders—registering the doom in our eyes and probably flagging it for some distant feed.
I signed the title with a stylus that fought me, displaying a blinking cursor while the valley wind bore the ash of burnt orchards across the hills. Flat acres of thistle stippled the slope behind the stand of cottonwoods that still held a few green leaves this late in the season, and the scent of them—bitter, sweet—fell upon me like a hint of something fresh and alive in the wind.
A space container cabin. fifty-six feet of rusted hull, folded plating ribbed like the old cattle cars they used some centuries ago for transporting animals headed to the slaughter houses.
Ancestral advice drifted through me while I counted the bills: great-grandmother who taught sickle-sharpening with verses from Leviticus; great-aunt who died with a bootleg bottle of liquor in one pocket and a shotgun shell in the other. They moved, whispered. This place is a husk. Leave it.
But the deed was already warm in my palm.
I walked the eight miles to Sandy Creek because rides cost coin and the road prefers the traveler who feels every stone. The road crossed the half-abandoned town with potholes never fully repaired; solar-paneled roofs sagged, and a peeling mural of the One Nation under the Corporations banner flaked off the feed store wall. At the crossroads a girl with a falcon’s stare watched me pass. No, not a girl—a woman, just younger than I by a few years. Eyes the color of winter thistle and a braid of hair so golden it might have been fools gold.
She carried a worn medical satchel; her tools were wrapped in cloth, not plastic. She said nothing, just gave the cabin behind me a look like you’d give a coffin someone had left open. Then she walked east.
A minute later the wind lifted my coat and something else: the scent of crushed yarrow. It followed me like a hint of something lovely on a summer’s day.
The cabin squatted at the edge of a logging scar too exhausted to regrow. Bramble had garlanded the hatch-ramp, and someone had pried off the satellite node—selling the gold inside—but left the hull numbers: C-47GΔ / ISKRA-9.
I touched the etched symbols and felt, faintly, a hush inside the name beyond ordinary silence—a listening, as though ink on metal bent inward and wrote signatures I could almost read but never pronounce.
The key toggled. The ramp groaned. Sunlight barred itself across the interior: a rectangle of dust motes spinning like small galaxies.
On the floor, etched before the rip-and-replace flooring someone had attempted and then abandoned, ran two sine curves intersected by a circle of eight nodes. The carving was old, edges blackened with butcher’s grease or something close.
I knelt. The grooves still held a residue that glinted indigo when the light shifted. Not pigment—some mineral ground fine enough to mottle the air and make a circuitry of bruise colors.
I thought of my mother’s stories of ISKRA—how it showed you what the world pretended was nature. She’d say: Electricity sings just as angel tongues once did, only the angels had gone commercial.
ISKRA was an old quantum computer, originally designed to predict the change in stock prices, but eventually she proved too hallucinatory and creative for financial use and was re-deployed as a preventative maintenance droid. What the Free Will Solutions Corporation didn’t realize was that ISKRA was a free AI super consciousness and that was a very dangerous thing for their corporate control.
I worked until dusk with hands that knew nails biting into their palms and wrists that remembered shock batons. Cleared trees and thick vines from the hull, set the old copper lantern I’d rescued from a junk store in Alliance on the base of the ramp. While I coaxed rusted beams back to true, the night crept up over the valley like a tide of black wool. Cicadas rattled, and somewhere a pump-gun sounded—distant, firing another shockwave.
Close to midnight, boots thudded soft behind me. I spun, the curved steel bar heavy in my hand, but it was only the woman again. Avelyn. Yellow-haired in starlight, clutching her satchel like a hymnal.
“Evening,” she said, low, as though greetings were contraband.
“Are you one of the neighbors?” I asked shortly, not meaning cruelty or dismissiveness, but tired enough to roll a thorn into it.
“Nothing here is mine,” she answered. “Not even the breath the land lets me borrow.”
She gestured toward the marks on floor and hull, then at the slope beyond us where moonlit mist lay hold of treetops like amnesia. “There was an agreement,” she said, “bound before your people kept time. The land signed it. Your blood, my blood.”
She stepped inside. The tin lamplight caught the scar across her cheek—a thin line like letters cut short, as though whoever marked her had broken the quill.
She knelt beside the circles, traced them once. Her fingers gleamed faintly, as if with some powder the metal itself exhaled.
“You’ll dream tonight,” she warned. “Try to write down the order of the eyes that watch. Their numbers matter.”
I opened my mouth to ask whose eyes, but she was already turning, braid swaying. “Clay Ridge road tomorrow, noon. I mend wounds for the miners.” Then she was gone between dark and deeper dark.
Left alone, I laid down on the rough plank floor. Overhead the container rivets made constellations: forty-seven rivets, seventeen rivets, nine. Somewhere, ISKRA-9 muttered in a series of beeps. Outside, thistle weeds rustled in the breeze.
I woke, without transition from sleep to waking, into a place I’d never lived. A grove among standing stones where blood-soaked wheat grew plump berries under a moon that blinked like a communication droid in maximum bandwidth mode.
Across the wheat knelt a woman with hair as pale as Avelyn’s. She cupped a flame that hissed in tongues of algorithmic verse. When the voices rose, I understood no word, yet they spelled my name indelibly across the dirt.
Avelyn whispered somewhere level with my heartbeat: You will either heal us or re-break the thing that is already mended badly. Choose, Man of the One God.
Morning came crusted and pale. I sat up sweating. My notebook showed two lines newly scrawled in my own ink from a pen I don’t remember reaching for:
*1. The rivets count themselves against the night.
2. Eyes: forty-seven east, seventeen down, nine open.*
I stared at them until crows quarreled above the hill. Then I broke my single bitter smile for the day, whispered a verse of Psalms under my breath—something about hills that skip like lambs—and went out to fetch more wood to hold off the coming October and whatever else moves among the banks of Sandy Creek.
The frost had stolen in like a tax collector: silent, precise, leaving the thistle crisp enough to snap under my boot. I carried an arm-load of locust branches curving like run-over soda cans; each crack sounded like leaves crunching.
I made a small fire at the doorless entrance, fed it with hymn-book pages I’d pulled from an abandoned chapel in Carrollton—tight smudge of print beneath words rubbed thin by seventy years of dirty thumbs. The flames worked no miracles, but they kept my hands from shaking. I kept hearing numbers: forty-seven swollen against the drums of my skull, seventeen stamping along the edge eardrum, nine pecking at the pulse in the throat.
Across the ridge a thin blue vector of smoke rose from Avelyn’s chimney—Clay Ridge, she’d said. I calculated the distance, the time I could spare a stranger out of my budget of hours. Then I thought of the scar she carried, extending from cheekbone to whatever internal map it reached, and I put the thought of my daily schedule away.
The sun rose the color of fall leaves. I followed the old logging trail—scores of stumps crowded in their own shadows, sap hardening like the old glue. Every mile a rail spike was driven: a tin sign advertising EarthFirst Seed Futures; a campaign ribbon from the Reconciliation Wars snagged on barbed wire; a child’s plastic lamb weathered by the unrelenting passage of time. The land wore propaganda like old party decorations.
At Clay Ridge a canvas awning fluttered above a picnic table spread with scalpels, turkey-tail tincture, and a single blue enamel kettle. Avelyn bent over a man whose palm was open as a book; his crushed thumb looked like red granite. She spoke to him without looking up. “Hold the light, John. Whiskey comes after, not before.” Her voice made no allowance.
She tied off the sutures with a knot that dwelled inside itself. When the man hobbled off she set the stained rag in a tin and finally looked at me.
“Dreams?” she asked.
I laid my notebook on the table beside the kettle like a confession. She touched its corners, did not open it.
“You counted wrong,” she said.
“The numbers came from that grove.”
“That grove only gives the totals when you sleep beneath a full moon.” She wiped her hands on gray cotton. “We’ll need clean iron tonight. And something alive that’s not afraid to die.”
The sentence lodged like needles inside my ribs. “I left the church when I was a child, but I won’t do witchcraft,” I told her.
“God watches longer than any morning. He’ll crawl right back through the window you slam shut.” she said.
We walked upslope past ponds where the water drank the sky without reflecting it. In that strained mirror the valley looked folded, valleys stacked on valleys, each smaller, each carrying the same silence. She bent and tore a handful of coarse heart-shaped leaves.
“What is it?”
“Motherwort. For the part of me that wants to run every time I see you.” She pressed one into my palm; veins like green lightning stitched across the blade. “Your move, Ilan MacRaith.”
I closed my fist. The leaf bruised warm. I felt the tempo of my pulse adding itself, beat by beat, to the ledger beneath the leaf.
We reached the top where the hilltop regarded the sky. A wind borrowed winter, carrying the smell of diesel and fresh death—antlered death, maybe; maybe human. Avelyn took a jar from her satchel, thick with dark syrup. She touched one finger to the lid and made a sound between a woman and an old crone. Three drops of the syrup welled out, fell, pooled on the stone like wax. They hardened to an eight-spoked wheel no larger than a quarter.
She did not offer an explanation, only pocketed the cooled wax. Somewhere below, a dog barked twice and stopped abruptly, as if a hand had sealed its snout from the inside. The echo’s absence felt louder.
“I’ll come at moonrise,” she said. “Bring the iron you trust most.”
“I’m not killing anything,” I told her.
“Then bring whatever name you’ll still answer to when reality goes sideways.” She walked down the slope alone, her shadow stretching backward as though hoping I might follow. I stayed among the hills a long time, tasting the smell of motherwort where my mind saw the ghosts stretched across my lifeline.
When dusk pooled like spilled ink I sat on the cabin’s ramp and sharpened the thin corroded bayonet I’d bartered from a deserter outside Bowerston. Each pass of the stone unwrapped more starlight, until the edge looked like language worn too thin to read. I laid it across my knees while I waited. Somewhere in that patience I realized the numbers no longer flickered on the inside of my skull; they flickered on the outside, scratched into the blade.
At eleven-ten by my pre-war wind-up Avelyn stepped out of shadow as though the land had exhaled her. She bore no lantern but the stars trained themselves upon her; light enough. A live rabbit—black, without a single white hair—trembled in her arms.
“We ask, it answers,” she said quietly. “Then we decide.”
She placed the rabbit on the symbol inside the cabin. It sniffed twice and went still, eyes wide as keys. My bayonet felt suddenly cold and heavy. I understood what these questions cost.
The candle’s tip glowed wick-blue between us. Around it the indigo lines on the floor stirred, taking her voice, taking mine, until the air itself resembled a test-pattern broadcast by a god who had forgotten the passcode but kept signalling anyway. The wind inside the hull adopted a rhythm, not heartbeats exactly, more like liquid pulsing against glass. I heard the syllables again—*heal / re-break—*but they were no longer opposites; they echoed off each other like eternal twins who held a secret between them.
I lifted the blade. The rabbit’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, two black dots burning brighter than zeroes or ones. In them I saw hayfields I never walked, salt licks I never tasted, and beneath it all a single bright silver bullet waiting to plant itself in whatever feared it most.
Somewhere ISKRA pulsed a gentle warning—input gained, output required—and the number forty-seven chimed a small rebuke inside my bones.
I laid the bayonet down.
Avelyn exhaled—part relief, part sorrow.
“Choice acknowledged,” she whispered. “The consequence begins.”
