by L. B. Carter
“What are you trying to do, fuel it with your disappointment?” Nor laughed.
Reed shrugged. “Works between Father and you.”
Nor deflated.
“Where are we going to find gas out here?” Sirena asked.
“Not gas,” Henley reminded her, but she was equally skeptical. “Hydrogen fuel cells run on water. Chemically pure, deionized water. You think we’re going to find someone willing to share their depleted stores with us?”
“We are not stealing from the impoverished!” Nor whipped around to scowl at Buster as if it were his idea to run out of fuel. Henley kind of liked blaming him for most things. “Or incriminating them by association. What if BSTU catches up to us while we’re there? These people are innocent civilians.”
“No human is innocent of the mess we’ve made of the Earth.” Jen sat back, satisfied in the solidity of her argument.
Nor gave her a quelling stare. “They don’t deserve the kind of retaliation we would bring to them.” He waved an arm out the window as stalks as tall as the car gave way to barren soils. “They’re already paying their dues.”
Jen’s lips thinned.
“What about from a restaurant or store?” Henley’s mind was cycling through other options. “Paid.”
“A million bottles of water?” Reed said dubiously. “Gonna be pricey. You guys got cash?”
Buster shook his head, saying over his shoulder to Henley, “Cameras.”
“We could duck them like we did at the bank.”
“Oh, happy to help with that,” Jen said, cracking her knuckles.
“Too risky. The car alone would alert them of our whereabouts, and Jen’s still wearing the locket, so we might have a fourth, more informed tail.”
Jen hid the jewelry from view with her palm. “No way.”
“Father wouldn’t harm.” Reed agreed with Buster’s caveat, but his voice sounded slightly uncertain. “We’d be consigning the workers at those locations to potential interrogation at minimum.”
“Stew would recognize the car, anyway,” Sirena assured dejectedly.
Alternate ideas lacking, Henley stayed quiet.
Seeing where that left them, Nor grumbled. “I can’t think of a less invasive option. Do it.”
◆◆◆
Reed selected a house far off the main road, only identifiable in its existence by the rusted tin mailbox creaking as it dangled off-kilter on one chain by the roadside. Henley didn’t even notice the driveway between the towering cornstalks until they had abruptly swung onto it.
Immediately, she had to grab onto the back of Buster’s seat, accidentally snagging a few of his lengthier strands, as the car trundled over uneven terrain. His hair even felt greasy. Granted, she wasn’t so clean herself.
Hitting a particularly deep pothole, the backseat was tossed into the air, causing Henley and Jen to tap the ceiling with the crowns of their heads.
“Yo, a little more consideration for the back of the bus,” Jen complained, rubbing the spot and mussing up her hair further, her crazed look almost complete. It might be best if they restricted her interaction with whoever lived at the end of the trail.
“This baby has excellent suspension. Don’t hurt her feelings.” Reed gave the dashboard a reassuring rub then quickly transferred his grip back to the wheel as it lurched with their ascent over an unexpected hurdle.
“This is worse than being on a boat,” Sirena moaned.
“Oi, no getting sick in my baby either!”
Henley was vibrating as though an electric current pulsed through her as they hit a gravelly section. Conversation stilted with the chattering of teeth and crunching of rock beneath the rugged tires.
Finally, they turned a corner, and the walls of lifeless plants dropped away. Out the front windshield was a massive bare patch in the center of which sat a small, two-story, wooden-slatted house, listing to one side as though the dusty winds blew from one direction and it was too old and weary to weather the onslaught.
Reed pulled up in a cloud of dust, well-cared-for brakes silent.
Sirena swung open her door and dropped out of sight, the sound of retching making Henley cringe and swallow sympathetic bile. She couldn’t stand the sight or sound of vomiting.
Since Sirena had broken the unspoken hesitancy to get out without thought, Henley climbed over the back of her seat and popped the trunk, unwilling to deign to ask Buster to move aside for her.
Her feet slapped onto the pebbly powder with another little dust swarm. Walking around, she analyzed their location of choice.
There were a few wooden steps—the rigidity of which Henley would be sure to test first before allowing them to support her weight—that led up to a wrap-around porch, and behind that, an ajar screen door danced slightly in the breeze. The wind wasn’t as strong as the house portrayed, a weak sigh. The air was very hot and dry. Four windows faced them. Either they sported curtains or no light shone from inside because they were as impenetrable as the windows to Reed’s jeep… or Buster’s humanity. There was no way to tell if anyone was scrutinizing them the way they were the rundown shack as it had become.
“I’m not sure if they’ll even have spare dirty water,” Nor worried.
“I’m not sure anyone lives here anymore,” Sirena said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. She took a sip of water from a bottle that she grabbed from the trunk as she passed around to stand beside the rest of them.
“Well, if there is anyone and they don’t have water, we can just trade them for this old boy.” Reed swiped the bottle from Sirena and screwed the cap on as he headed over to inspect a rust-riddled truck equally as worn as the house. He gave an investigative kick to the front bumper. It didn’t fall apart. It did release a cloud of fine particles that caused him to cough. “If it runs.”
“Hello?” Jen called out. “Anyone home?”
“Jen,” Sirena hissed, eyes wide. “What if someone hears you?”
“Duh, that’s the point.” Jen walked up to the porch, placing one hand on the railing and one foot tentatively on the bottommost stair. She leaned toward the door. “We’re not serial killers or anything, promise.”
“Subtle,” Buster commended.
“Definitely not something a serial killer would say.” Reed gave two thumbs up.
“Have at it if you’re so much more skilled at asking some random strangers to use their precious life-essentials while trying to not look like a bunch of crazy delinquents running away from home.” Jen bowed to Reed, one arm outstretched in invitation.
“Well the blood stains on your upper lip certainly aren’t helping.”
Jen sneered and gestured Reed toward the door. “Gentlemen first.”
“Henley should go.”
Reed paused and pivoted toward Buster, eyebrow cocked. “One of the weakest here—no offense,” he added to Henley.
She waved him off, her bad hand coming up to twist her hair. He didn’t need to know that he was inaccurate. She kept her reinforced hand wrapped behind her back. “Why me?” Was Buster’s reason for bringing her finally going to be revealed?
“She’s good with people.” Buster’s statement was fact, as with everything else he said.
Jen snorted. “What convinced you of that, the punch to the stomach?”
“No, he’s right.” Nor caused Reed’s second brow to raise. “She handled Jen’s, uh, panic attack far better than any of us did.”
Reed lifted two palms and backed to the side. “Fine. I’m out-voted. But know that you’re missing out on seeing my own, undefeated charm in action. I’m excellent at wooing people.”
“Women, not people.”
“Well, it’s a fifty-fifty chance it would have been,” Reed uttered to Nor snidely.
Jen raised her hand. “I’m a woman. I feel pretty unwooed.”
“I wasn’t trying with you. Clients are off limits.” Reed’s chin raised.
Henley wasn’t sure how much she truly embodied Buster’s opinion of her. She’d spent
the last four years, eleven months interacting the most with non-intelligent ‘beings’—skeleton analogs, not emotional people. Robots, essentially. That did not bode well for honing a strength in socialization. However, out of their options, she supposed she was the least threatening. Reed was too flirtatious, Sirena too inhuman at first glance, Jen too abrasive and bloody, and Nor— Nor was fine, if a little too trusting of human nature. He could go. “Nor doesn’t want to do it?”
“Prove to them that women can do any job better.” Jen held up her fist in solidarity. “You go, girl.”
It was strange encouragement for the task. However, Nor took a step back, inviting Henley to take the position.
Emboldened by Buster and Nor’s confidence in her winsome skills, Henley stepped forward, testing each step as she went, of course. The wood was too dry to rot. Brittle, they popped and resettled under her weight. Did the owners usually jump right over them? Perhaps no one was home, and they wouldn’t have to rely on her negotiation.
Henley’s confidence was waning as she cautiously stepped up to the door. How could she be the best suited to represent their group? As far as first impressions went, she doubted her borrowed sweatshirt with a cat inside a taco graphic on it and too-short leggings were ideal.
It was dark behind the screen door. Henley blinked slowly, permitting her pupils to dilate enough to improve her vision in the dim lighting.
“Should we wait in the car?” Her back-up, Nor, asked nervously from behind Henley. She was on her own.
She blew out a breath and called out unsteadily. “Hello?”
There was no response and no movement that she noticed. She glanced at the eaves of the porch roof—no visible cameras. Henley hadn’t expected any in accordance with the state of disrepair of the rest of the people’s belongings. Tech was expensive. BSTU gave quite the lashing when human error from its free workforce led to any wasted materials or damaged pieces of equipment.
The silence was also anticipated, given that Jen had already loudly declared their presence.
This close, the mismatch between the screen door and its frame explained why it didn’t shut. The wood on the edge of the door was rough—homemade.
She poked her head in and called another greeting as though the porous screen weren’t permeable to sound waves. The sunset sent an angled square of light just a few feet from Henley’s shoes, streaming in from a window directly ahead at the other end of a hall. Even inside, dust motes danced in the air, twinkling in the light like fireflies inviting her to dance under the waning sun-rays.
Henley eyed that step of darkness between her and the golden floor like it were a trapdoor. With irrational fear, she took an exaggerated step, spanning the imaginary chasm onto the ground that matched everything else in this part of the world.
The door slapped behind her, and she jumped, offering it a glare to silence it. Through the black mesh, she could see Jen give a thumbs up though her shoulders were lifted with apprehension. Reed was close behind her, atypically austere. Sirena had hold of the edge of Nor’s shirt with one hand, her other on the collar of her shirt.
A rustle whispered into Henley’s ear, and she turned fast enough to send a crick of pain through her neck.
Eyes darting around, she took in a massive kitchen on the edge of which she hovered. In fact, there was no hallway—the entire half of this floor of the house was a kitchen. An empty table with an empty painted bowl sat near the window to her right. Counter-tops and cabinets spanned the side walls, and a huge stove and hood dominated the back wall next to a fridge. A counter, bisected by a deep rusted sink, parallel to the right wall, was giving the illusion of a hallway. Across from it, stairs ascended into darkness. On her left was an opening into the southern half of the floor plan. There was a couch and fireplace and not much else. It all appeared whole beneath the layer of filth—disused rather than abused.
“Excuse me?” That was too breathy for anyone to hear beyond herself. The stillness alluded to vacancy, yet there had been a noise.
With rising tension, Henley wished more of her was programmed to detach from her senses as desired. Tech could not be hampered by fear. Nothing could intimidate Henley’s creations.
On the other hand, her project proved that sometimes a little reluctance to wander into an unknown environment was prudent. Perhaps she should go. No one was home. They’d have to try somewhere else.
She twisted toward the door when the sound again slithered down the stairs—the hushed shifting of fabric.
Clothes? She imagined a ghost, wearing a sheet like kids used to wear for Halloween, hovering at the top of the stairs, waiting for her to come into its lair.
If there was anything illogical in her fears thus far into her adventure beyond BSTU’s well-manicured lawns, it was ghosts. She didn’t believe in the supernatural. She was an engineer. Well, an almost-engineer. One who was attempting to reach her family, which would be an impractical task without running transportation. Just how much fuel was left in the car, she was unaware. It might not even get them back down the treacherous driveway.
Attempting to shake off the apprehension raising her arm hair, Henley started up the stairs, again testing to ensure they weren’t too precarious. A few creaked, but they held. A shoe print or two in the grime proved their resilience. They seemed fairly fresh.
“Hello? Sorry to intrude. We need help.”
The top of the stairs gratefully presented no spirits and levelled into a hallway. Two doors, one on either side, stood open. A third and fourth mirrored behind her were closed. A flickering light emanated from the one on her right.
Henley didn’t know if that reassured or petrified her. Her legs felt unsteady yet reluctant to budge.
All right, it was fear.
Clenching and opening a fist with her good hand helped prod her in the direction of the presumably occupied room. She wasn’t weak.
Her feet were quiet as she tip-toed. Holding a breath and raising her fist at chest level, she decided she wanted to take Sirena up on that offer of sparring to learn how to properly use her asset.
Directly ahead of her in the sparsely furnished room was an empty rocking chair, which was, as it should be, still, though in the flickering light it cast long, thin shadows gamboling on the walls and ceiling, distorted by the ninety-degree corner of the room.
Peering around the door frame, she noticed a bedside table next to her, supporting a flickering candle stub and next to that a bed—a lumpy bed.
Daring to step inside the room, she trod a little closer, breath high in her throat, head craning to see from above. Were they sleeping at this time of day?
She was almost beside the bed when Henley noticed the thin, crusted white hair on the pillows and barely withheld her scream. With rising devastation quelling the horror, she followed the hair down to the wrinkled, slack faces of an elderly couple tucked peacefully under a checkerboard quilt. The mouth of the one closest was agape, and her white eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, covered in a thick, milky film.
They were dead.
Henley clapped a hand over her mouth, tears immediately blurring the morbid scene. Whether from dehydration or something else, the culprit was hidden in their final muteness.
Henley took a step back toward the door, feeling like a heavy shadow was lacing stickily over her skin. She didn’t want to be here. Her misdeeds were numerous over the last day or two, but death was not something she wanted associated with her presence. The scene gutted her, imparting severity on what had almost been her fate at BSTU—what might be Bromley’s fate if this discovery proved to be the final obstacle in their journey.
The candle hadn’t burned very long, the wax barely dripping. They must have passed recently. Henley had just missed saving them.
It was a little romantic in the skipping light with the fluid coating her eyes layering the couple’s final resting place in a dream-like filter. They went together—not terrified and alone, leaving the rest of their family behind like Dadd
y.
The candle’s flame flared.
Henley’s back hit the door frame and she uttered a startled gasp, then blew out a heavy breath, laughing that she had scared herself so thoroughly.
The woman’s head turned slowly toward the sound, eyes still unblinking.
Henley’s terrified scream was still vaulting out of her lungs as she tripped and fell, rolling down the stairs. Scrambling upright, she slammed right into Buster’s chest as he strode through the front door.
“No! Go, go, go,” she blubbered into his chest, trying to shove him back out the door. He was immovable.
“What happened?” he demanded, grasping her shoulders.
“Go,” she pushed again, and more out of his concession than her strength, the two stepped back through the screen onto the porch.
Though the sun was almost down, the spaciousness of the setting and light cascading around the house allowed some of Henley’s panic to dissipate, snatched up by the dry breeze. Buster’s massive frame, which she suddenly realized was holding her close, did not feel as agoraphobia-inducing as the dank interior of the old building that truly held only death and horror.
“What happened?” Reed repeated Buster’s question. Bus had sounded concerned. Reed sounded set, like he was prepared for battle.
Henley sobbed into Buster’s solid chest, trying to find the science behind her hallucination. She did not believe in zombies or…or… reincarnation or whatever had animated that corpse. She was dehydrated. She hadn’t slept much. She had encouraged her imagination. She had been wishing for her dad back, and her mind had conjured a resurrection like the Monkey’s Paw. Every time she attempted to inhale enough air to speak, it fell back out of her in jittery wails. “A… person,” she hiccupped. “Two. Upstairs.”
“Well… that’s what we hoped wasn’t it?” Reed was baffled.
Henley shook her head, unable to gather her frayed wits enough to explain more adequately. “De—Dead. But—”
There was a respectful silence penetrated only by Henley’s heaving sobs.
“Then we can just check around to see if they left any water.”
“No!” Henley’s protest was feeble, but Jen paused, her blurry outline waiting for Henley to extrapolate.
