THE PLAGUE YEARS

Chapter 4

Cicero, Illinois

Frank Capone smiled as he got out of the car. The Washington trip had gone well.

No more Federal Government to poke its nose into our business…

The state governments would learn to toe Capone's line.

Or they'll go the way of the Fed…

"Get some sleep," he told his bodyguard, Gyp Rossetti. Not that he really needed a bodyguard. He had proven that in DC. But Rossetti's presence-the horrifying bestiality of the man-had prevented more than a few tragic misunderstandings…

Rossetti grunted, mumbled something the tusks made unintelligible.

Then, he was off to his kennel.

One of his lieutenants was outside, waiting for him; as was only proper. But he looked distinctly uneasy, and Al-who was usually the one to greet him-was conspicuously absent.

"Where's my brother?"

The lieutenant flinched.

"Sorry, boss," he said. "Al took off late last night, took his kid, Sonny, with him. Said this ain't any kind of place for a kid to grow up in."

"I see…"

Frank did see.

Family first…

Besides, while Al had been Changed by the Plague, his powers were piddling little things compared to Frank.

Al was now immune to all diseases-including the one he had already-and, in a really ironic stroke, also completely immune to all drugs and poisons.

Watching Al snort all that cocaine, to absolutely no effect, was kind of funny, in a tragic way.

But he was no threat whatsoever to Frank's power.

Frank could level entire blocks of buildings with a mere thought, eradicate whole neighborhoods in seconds flat. He could bring lightning down from a cloudless sky. An entire army had been reduced to pools of blood and roasted flesh.

In fact, there had only been one man who could threaten Frank Capone; and he was dead. Frank Capone had made sure of that.

George Mueller…

Nelson Van Alden…

Frank had disliked the necessity of having him killed. Whatever his name, the man had been a loyal underling; and it was clear Mueller hadn't wanted the power.

He didn't seem to have an ambitious bone in his body.

But power, the kind of power Frank had now; he was learning that power changed a man.

He wasn't the same man he had been before the Plague.

So, the Power would have changed Mueller too.

The man had died bravely.

No running, or begging for his life…

But he had to die.

Like me, his power would have grown. We would have become enemies…

Somewhere, out in the wilds

It had been a week since the Great Evacuation; and the convoy of covered wagons were slowly trekking as far away from civilization as possible. With the fall of the Federal Government, lawlessness had returned in full force, and the cities were fast becoming death-traps.

Margaret Schroeder, tending to her children, and one comatose patient, aboard Enoch Thompson's wagon, had been saddened to see how utterly correct Thompson's predictions had been.

New York had…erupted; casualties in the thousands over the course of just one weekend. One of those casualties had been Arnold Rothstein.

Everything has gone topsy-turvy…

Now it was safer out in the wilds.

Provided you bring an army with you…

That was exactly what Thompson's convoy was; an armed, mobile camp.

Margaret had told the children to be quiet as they played, and they were, giggles softly muted; and as they played, she looked at her patient.

She was of two minds about Nelson Van Alden.

They had met before, and-for her, at least, the encounter had not been a felicitous one…

His religious fanaticism had been obnoxious, and his…obsession…with her had angered, and frightened her.

But Enoch had brought Van Alden back to Atlantic City, half-dead from gunshot wounds; and rumors abounded that he had died from those wounds.

Neither Enoch Thompson, nor Richard Harrow, would confirm those rumors.

But Margaret could see that Enoch was just a little bit frightened; and if it wasn't the rumors, then what was it that frightened him so?

And, despite what the rumors might say, Nelson Van Alden surely wasn't dead now…

He seemed to be asleep, wrapped up in warm blankets, chest slowly rising and falling.

The Change Plague had changed everything. It turned men into monsters, and toppled governments.

Could it bring a dead man back to life?

Nelson Van Alden was dreaming…

Sitting at the dinner-table, Rose's hand in his as he prays.

He feels her sadness, in her unfulfilled state.

In the apartment he shares with Lucy, Rose's anger at him. Lucy had given him the child Rose could not…

Again, he is in the lake, hands holding Agent Eric Sebso down as he drowns.

The world creaks and groans all around him, and in that sound, Van Alden can hear the moans and cries of all the damned souls in Hell…

His eyes opened. He heard soft giggles, the sound of children playing.

Abigail?

But the world still creaked and groaned all around him.

Am I awake?

Someone was bending over him. He recognized the woman's face.

Margaret Schroeder?" his voice was a dry, dusty-sounding croak.

"That's me," her Irish lilting voice was still the same.

Van Alden looked around, trying to get his bearings.

"Where are we?"

"I'll get my husband," Margaret replied. "He'll explain."

Then, she was gone.

Her husband?

He was dead, on the orders of Enoch Thompson. Van Alden had been certain of that. But the evidence kept on eluding him, and now…

Now, it no longer mattered.

Now, Van Alden was as guilty as Thompson, his hands just as unclean…

He looked down at himself in the dim candle-light. He had been wrapped in blankets, virtually swaddled. Apart from the blankets, there was nothing to cover his nakedness. The scars on his chest were plainly visible, and they made him pause.

He wasn't any kind of doctor; but he had shot enough men to know what the grouping of those three gunshot wounds meant.

I should have died…

"Finally…"

Enoch Thompson's voice jarred Van Alden right down to his toes…

"I was beginning to think you would never wake up," Thompson was saying. "Thirsty?"

He held out a water skin, but Van Alden hesitated.

Thompson rolled his eyes.

"Relax," he groused. "It's only water."

It was tepid, but soothed Van Alden's parched throat just fine.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"We're in a convoy of covered wagons," Thompson replied. "Just trying to stay out of the way."

Van Alden sat up slowly, pulling the blankets around his shoulders.

"Out of the way of what? What happened to make you pull up stakes like this?"

"The Federal Government is fallen," Thompson was grim. "Frank Capone brought it down, and now it looks like he's on his way to becoming America's ruler."

"A new American Caesar…" Van Alden murmured.

"Yeah," Thompson nodded. "So, we're staying out of his way, hoping he won't notice us, making sure he doesn't find you."

"Me?" Van Alden's voice cracked a little. "For God's sake…why?"

"You tell me," Thompson stared at him. "He had you shot for chrissakes. When I found you, you were dead."

Dead?

"No," he shook his head. "That's…impossible!"

"Yeah?" Thompson loomed over him. "I found you; and you were dead. As the proverbial doorknob. You weren't breathing. Your heart wasn't beating."

Again, Van Alden looked down at his bare chest, at the scars.

He remembered standing there, in the oncoming storm, with Frank Capone and Stan Toreschi. He remembered waiting for his death…

The explosive sound, the sudden, horrendous, agony. And then…

I woke up here…

"What possible reason could you have for looking for me in the first place?"

Thompson sighed irritably.

"It's all a mess," he admitted. "But I'm going to assume you caught the Change Plague."

"How could you know that?" Van Alden demanded.

Thompson chuckled mirthlessly.

"Dead men don't just…wake up," he said. "You woke up about twelve hours after I found you. Scared the shit out of me too. Then you fell back into this…coma. You were out of it for seven more days. But I guess getting shot and killed takes a lot out of a body."

I guess it does…

Van Alden fought off the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up.

Get a grip…

"So you're keeping me hidden from Frank Capone?"

"Yes," Thompson nodded. "This is becoming a war; and without you, the world will burn."

Van Alden couldn't hold off the laughter this time; and even he could hear the hysteria, the blackness of it…

The smart rap of Thompson's knuckles across his cheek turned the laughter off; leaving Van Alden feeling breathless; sudden rage boiling up.

"Sorry," Thompson apologized. "I know you're reeling right now. But this is too important. The entire world is at risk right now. There's…darkness coming. I may not be the most morally upstanding person in the world. But I don't want the world to be destroyed, and neither do you."

The sudden rage faded, leaving Van Alden feeling…empty.

"No," he agreed. "I don't want that…"

Frank Capone was bringing Darkness to the world.

"What could I possibly do against that?"

"You caught the Change Plague, didn't you? Didn't it change you?"

"Well…" Van Alden shrugged, feeling awkward.

"I healed a little girl's broken leg," he finally admitted. "But I don't know how I did it."

"Then why were you shot?" Thompson demanded. "I know Capone ordered it."

"I think he was trying to be merciful…"

"Merciful?" Thompson repeated.

"You've never seen Frank Capone kill," Van Alden shuddered, remembering…

"I've heard how he kills," Thompson remained impassive. "I want to know why he wanted you dead."

"He found out who I really was," Van Alden closed his eyes, remembering Robert Steinhauer, how the man had died.

"I was living in Cicero, as George Mueller. There was an attempt on Capone's life-Feds-one of whom had been a friend of mine before…before…"

He couldn't finish.

"So…this Fed told Frank Capone who you really were?"

"Yes," Van Alden nodded. "I guess Frank must have thought that, due to what I had been before working for him, that I could no longer be trusted."

"It sounds reasonable on the surface," Thompson nodded. "But I wouldn't have had you killed for that; and most people I know in similar positions wouldn't have had you killed for that either. Unless they're the trigger-happy sort. Did Frank Capone strike you as being trigger-happy?"

"No…" Van Alden shook his head. "He's as cold as ice, that one…"

There was a tense silence, as Van Alden tried to wrap his mind around what Thompson was telling him.

"I can't be that important," he finally said. "I'm no more a creature of light than you are."

"Time will tell," Thompson looked down at him. "For now, however, we have other things facing us. There are clothes that should fit you well enough. The trousers are a touch wide, but they come with suspenders. One last question…"

"Yes?" Van Alden was feeling just a touch overwhelmed right now.

"Do you know anything about animal husbandry?"

Animal husbandry?

"I grew up on a farm…"

Until my father gave the farm up to follow Reverend Edgerton Sterry in eighteen-ninety-two…

But that was neither here, nor there.

"A farm boy, eh?" Thompson smiled slightly.

"Yes, Mr. Thompson," Van Alden nodded. "I've milked cows, shod horses, baled hay…"

Until eighteen-ninety-two…

He had been happy on that farm; how happy he hadn't realized.

Until now…

"Good," Thompson was nodding too. "You're hired."

"I'm…what?"

But Thompson had turned, was riffling through a pile of clothing, flinging appropriate items in Van Alden's direction.

"Make yourself presentable," he ordered. "Then join me outside, and I'll introduce you to the rest of the gang."

It was only early afternoon. But Eli Thompson and Chalky White had decided to stop and set camp up for the day.

It was a good place to stop, with shady groves, and a swift-running river nearby.

Clean, fresh water…

Now, Eli and Chalky were setting camp up for the evening.

Nelson Van Alden came out of Nucky's wagon, looking out-of-place in the somewhat shabby clothes he was now wearing.

"Over here," Nucky gestured.

Introductions, to Eli, Chalky, and Richard Harrow, were made quickly. Harrow was studying Van Alden intently.

Harrow had said his gift was to see what Powers other people had…

"Camp's set for the night," Eli Thompson said. "Is the watch set?"

"Yeah…" Chalky White replied. "We gotta get the cook-fires set, or we won't eat…"

"All right," Nucky nodded. "Why don't you take Nelson with you and get those fires set?"

Nucky watched Chalky move off with Van Alden, while Else went off to finish the last of the camp set up. Now, he and Richard Harrow were alone.

"Did you get a good look at him?" Nucky asked.

"Yeah…" Harrow tilted his head in that odd way of his. "He's so bright, he shines like the Sun. It could be…dangerous…having him here."

He was looking at Chalky White and Nelson Van Alden as he spoke.

"Dangerous?" Nucky repeated. "How, and to whom?"

"Can't tell yet, Boss. But his first act of Power was to heal a girl's broken leg, you said. That means Van Alden's power is Light-Aspected, as opposed to Frank Capone's, which seems to be Aspected to Dark."

"So, Van Alden should be less dangerous, right?"

"Not necessarily," Harrow said. "Light can be every bit as destructive as Dark,"

"All right, "Nucky turned back to Harrow. "So…any idea as to what he can do?"

"No," Harrow admitted. "We won't be able to tell what he can do until he actually does it. But, I can tell you this; whatever his capabilities are, they'll be…big."

Oh…joy…

Nucky watched Van Alden as he worked, under Chalky White's supervision.

Van Alden towered over virtually everyone; those shabby, ill-fitting clothes making him look more scarecrow-like than anything else.

There was this…shy awkwardness…to the man.

As if he expects rejection, not acceptance…

That worried Nucky.

A man like this, with power like that…

Nucky had heard all the reports of what Frank Capone had done in Washington.

Here I am, sheltering a man who might equal Frank Capone in power…

Nelson Van Alden hadn't shown any signs of that kind of power; not yet, at least. But having Van Alden here, in his camp, felt a lot like transporting nitroglycerine in a tipsy wagon.

Hope he doesn't explode…