A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  Headstones jump out at me like ground shields, stilting my pace. They form short rows in spurts, but no permanent order organizes them enough for me to run full out. Even though it goes against every scream of adrenaline, I slow my pace so I don’t bash my shins.

  The train whistles from my right, like four different harmonies off key, screeching its approach.

  Forget bashing my shins. I break into a sprint. My pack thwacks like dead weight on my spine. My rabbit furs slip and twist on my feet with each pounding footfall. A rock pierces my sole. The train light crests a bridge over the river we’ve been following. Three headlights form a triangle, their conical beams revealing the tracks ahead of me on a raised length of pyramidal ground. I can get there.

  Breathe. A rabbit fur tears and flops around my ankle. My pumping arms screech like the approaching whistle. Stinging irritation presses like a glove of needles on my stump. I tighten my remaining muscles against it. The rumble of the train vibrates in my chest. The tracks glow under the dim stars.

  My shins collide with a cement headstone.

  With a shriek, I careen forward as my disjointed sprint steals my balance. Loss of control. Arms out. My stump shines in the train’s headlight like a mutilated wave good-bye.

  I crash, headfirst, onto the tracks.

  My cheekbone smashes against the vibrating rail, jarring my teeth. Despite the shock, I maintain enough reflex to pull a foot up and hurl myself off the tracks. The train flies past like an arrow.

  I flip onto my back, fighting for air. Leaning back on my elbows, I stare up at the hurtling beast. My loose hair flies around my face like a windstorm. Unable to read a single word on the shadowed paint, I gape. The high hiss of metal rims on railroad ties scrapes like a sharpened knife on my pounding heart. The ground shudders with exhilaration.

  Thrill. Hope. It’s all contained in the speeding train that almost claimed my shaking, very human, very fragile body.

  Lights flash by in small square windows with rounded corners. Drapes cover some. Others are open, letting the internal glow shine out. The power behind the locomotive rolls my nerves like underground thunder.

  A passenger train. A passenger train now screeching against the rails with a new sound. Brakes. It’s stopping.

  The intensity of my heartbeat is almost painful. I struggle to breathe. My cheek throbs, but excitement douses the pain. I crawl to my knees and push myself to my feet. The end car passes me with a receding whiz, pulling me after it as if hooking me with a fishing line.

  I jog beside the tracks, fighting the limp in my burning shin. The train places more distance between us, all the while slowing. Slowing. For me?

  It stops. I continue to jog. My every nerve trembles with wary excitement. I reach the end car as an orb of light bobs through the darkness toward me. When the bearer of this odd lantern nears, I make out facial features.

  It’s a woman, mid-fifties. Her short hair is smooth silver—dyed, not aged—and curled in a heavy side part over to her left. Her prominent cheekbones, thin curved eyebrows, and pursed rose lips stand out against her cool skin. She wears dirty overalls rolled up to her shins, a baggy green shirt, and floppy shoes. She’s not albino. Is she from the East?

  “You’re alive then?” Her voice is low and creamy, contradicting her irritated look.

  Flustered, I close my mouth to swallow. “Yes,” I gasp.

  “Is that your intention?” Her voice holds tinges of a British accent.

  I frown. “What?”

  She drops her arm, holding the orb by a triangle handle. “Is it your intention to be alive or was your stunt on the tracks an attempt to take your life?”

  “Take my life?” I hate that I don’t understand. “How would I take my life? I still have four and a half months.”

  She rolls her eyes and waves her free hand in the air. “Never mind. Where are you headed? Make it quick.”

  “Ivanhoe.” Finally! A response that’s not a question. “Where are you from?”

  “Ivanhoe.” She jerks her thumb to the train. “Hop on. You got trade?”

  So she is an Independent. My tension lessens. “Trade?”

  “To. Pay. Your. Way.” She keeps a calm low tone, but speaks with crisp enunciation.

  “No.”

  She shrugs and lifts the lantern again. “A trade collector will mark you down for Ivanhoe credit. He’ll explain the details if you’re willing to work.” She turns away.

  I stumble forward and grab her shoulder. “Wait, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Get on board.” She raises an eyebrow and jerks her shoulder from my tense fingers. “I’m on a tight schedule. We have five minutes per stop and a thirty-stop maximum. You’re number twenty-four and we still have five hundred miles to go. There may be more pick-ups ahead.”

  I gesture into the blackness with my stump. “But two others are with me. I need to get them.”

  She raises both eyebrows this time and looks down at me with a degrading appraisal. Her eyes stop on my severed hand and a tiny frown brings her brows together. I slide it behind my back, tensing. Why didn’t I keep it hidden?

  With a breath, she seems to recover herself. “Then you better wait for the next train.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Two weeks for my line. You can travel south and meet up with the Kansas Rail. It runs a shorter line and you should be able to catch it next week.”

  Weeks? I have only twenty weeks left. Can I sacrifice two, maybe three weeks of my last Numbers to wait for Jude and Willow?

  I must. I can’t leave them.

  The conductress leaves me in the dark, heading back toward the engine. I step back and stare at the train. Now that it’s stopped and the moonlight hits it, I make out the dark yellow paint spread over the metallic beast. Small dents dot the shell, mixing with grease and stains. The top of each car is capped with silver metal and a railed walkway lines the bottom of the cars. Ivanhoe Independent is painted between the two.

  Ivanhoe.

  The conductress and her orb are gone. I step back from the locomotive as groans announce its intent to continue. Desperation pounds my sternum. Five hundred miles. Jude never told me Ivanhoe was five hundred miles away. It will take us at least three weeks to reach it on foot, maybe even a month. Could we even gather enough food to last us that long?

  The thought of Jude plates my heart with steel. He’s not taking me to Ivanhoe anyway. Why should I go back to him? He hit me.

  “Don’t you let a man touch you . . .” Reid had said. Was he also considering moments of violence? I never thought a man would want to hurt me.

  Jude never committed to traveling with me and I never committed to him. I owe him nothing.

  God, You told me to go to Ivanhoe. The train clamors into motion, inching forward, crawling along the tracks with whines and deep croaks of machinery. You brought this train for me. Can there be any clearer message?

  “Wait.” I reach out to the train and glance back toward the direction from which I ran. If I shout, Jude won’t hear me. He has his music. Besides, he wouldn’t run here fast enough. If I leave, Jude will be angry . . . but he won’t find me. He won’t go to Ivanhoe. He doesn’t even want to. He wants to be alone.

  But do I want to leave him?

  I walk along the dirt as the train gains speed. Should I go? Can I venture out alone again? I remind myself of Jude yelling at me, of him pushing me down, not caring he hurt me. He called me stupid. Selfish. Impulsive.

  I reach up, wrap my chilled fingers around the metal railing, and hoist myself on board. Something inside me shudders—a weak nervousness. I’m going. Going to Ivanhoe.

  My first city.

  I stare into the darkness, conflicted, but paralyzed with thrill. I have to go. I need to find the Newtons. Soon Jude will realize he went too far when he pushed me. I’m protecting him
by leaving. I can submit journal entries at my will and the assassin won’t be able to follow Jude because I’m no longer with him. Jude can go where he wants, safely.

  My breath comes in gasps. I clutch the rail. Wind generates goose bumps on my tired skin. The train reaches running speed. If I’m going to change my mind, it needs to be now, while I can still jump off.

  Sick doubt prods my conscience. I imagine Jude waking and finding me gone. What will he think? Will he regret his actions? Consider it his fault? Will he worry about me?

  I hope so, I think savagely.

  Maybe I should stay. What am I doing leaving Jude and Willow so I can progress on my own? What’s three weeks of traveling?

  I step to the edge and watch sagebrush fly by. The jump will hurt.

  But it’s three weeks of traveling. God said to go. Jude and I are safer apart. Obedient. I’m being obedient and I’m already on the train. I step back, safe behind the rail.

  I’ve made my decision.

  I look forward, toward the engine, toward the mystery. Onward to Ivanhoe.

  A pale ghostlike form pushes through the tar of blackness ahead. Barefoot. Wild and stumbling.

  Willow.

  She sees me and releases a throaty scream. “Parvin!”

  Ice clenches my breath.

  “No! Parvin!” She races toward the train.

  I bolt down the railing to the end, cursing myself. How could I think only of Jude? How can I leave Willow alone with him?

  “Willow, here!” I reach over the railing at the end of the car by the steps, straining to stretch my slim body.

  “I can’t!” She sobs, as the train passes her. She staggers after it, but grows smaller. “Don’t leave me!”

  My own tears threaten to join hers. “I’m sorry.” How can I explain? I have to go.

  But she wanted to go, too. With me.

  “I’m sorry, Willow!” I call back to her. “I’m going to Ivanhoe! Follow the tracks!”

  She crumples on the rails. “Jump off!” Her voice is nothing more than a washed out echo.

  “I can’t,” I whisper as her ghostly form is swallowed by the night. I didn’t think fast enough. I didn’t think. Something kept me glued to the train.

  Now, it’s too late.

  29

  000.143.10.51.20

  The warm interior of the Ivanhoe Independent welcomes me, but my soul remains chilled.

  Willow.

  Lines of brown bench seats, big enough for two people, flank each side of the car, facing forward. Each one is empty. Light orbs, like the one the conductress held, hang from the center of the ceiling in a long line. Cold metal floors chill my exposed foot.

  I wrap my arms around my middle and walk into the next car. More empty seats line the sides like café booths with tables between them. I don’t know what I expected—Independents cheering me aboard while they sit drinking hot chocolate?

  No one is here.

  Chills creep up my legs like iced fingers. I wish I wasn’t alone.

  Willow.

  I open the next door and step across the shuddering enclosed walkway between cars. This one has a narrow hall with olive curtains along both sides. The orbs expel dim light. A snore crescendos over the deafening train. Sleeping quarters. I’ve always wanted to sleep on a train.

  Some of my guilt recedes into interest. I look from curtained bed to curtained bed and sneak a peek under one of them. A snoring gentleman lies on his side with his lips sticking out like a lazy fish. I walk on, embarrassed that I peeked.

  I pass more occupied beds until I reach three open ones, curtains still tied back. Three. One for each of us. I close my eyes and curse myself.

  God, strike me dead now. Forget about my Clock. I hate myself.

  The aches of my body flair in anticipation of lying down on cloth, on a mattress. I look down at my clothes and back at the folded white bed sheets. My own blood, scrapes, and dirt stand out with a shout against the possibility of touching something clean. I glance around before sniffing my right armpit. I cringe and suck in a breath through my mouth.

  One of these beds is for me. I’m a passenger. They can’t kick me off for being dirty. I’ll take the lower bed. The other two open bunks are too high for a girl with a stump arm to climb into. Willow could’ve slept above me.

  I drag a hand over my face, envisioning her small form crumpled on the tracks. Abandoned. By me. Has she ever seen a train before? She was so excited about Ivanhoe.

  I let out a long breath and drop my pack onto the foot of the bed. A hiss meets my ears from my left. I pause, tense.

  “Pssst.”

  I look over and start. A woman with wheat-blonde hair in a side braid stares down at me with smeared eye makeup. She smiles, revealing sleepy bags beneath her eyes and splotchy skin.

  “The showers are two cars up.” Her sleep breath hits my face with the strength of a rhino.

  I step back. “Thank you. I’ve been traveling.”

  She looks me up and down, her eyes lingering on my stump then taps her nose. “I can tell. It’s so much nicer sleeping refreshed.”

  I can’t remember the last time I went to sleep refreshed. Showers. I know how they work, but I’ve never seen one before. Leaving my pack on the bed, I take my extra shirt, a wad of remaining underwear, and untie the curtains to claim my spot. I then proceed through another sleep car into the shower car. Four wooden stalls on the right say, Men and four on the left say, Women. Ahead are toilets with curtains around them. Toilets.

  They tremble from the harsh clatter of the train, but the cold metal still feels like a luxury. After relieving myself, I enter the first shower stall. More cold grey metal lines the three walls, surrounding a spout above my head. A knob below it has an H and C for what I assume are ‘hot’ and ‘cold’. Beside that is a small digital clock covered in plastic.

  A clear sealed box hangs on the shower wall. With careful maneuvering, using my teeth and good hand, I extract myself from my layered clothing and stuff it all in the box. It feels strange being unclothed and I double-check the latched door. Then I turn the knob to the H.

  Ice water spews from the spout into my face. I leap back and slam against the door. It stays latched. The clock above the temperature knob blinks a number countdown from six minutes. By 5:23, the water is hot and glorious.

  A sigh escapes my throat and I soak in the water for a full minute before scrubbing the grime from my skin. My bashed shin is already swollen and turning purple. It’s numb to the touch.

  This is so much easier than heating the kettle over and over again. If I get enough specie from my biography, maybe Mother and Father can invest in a shower.

  A large bottle labeled SOAP with a dispenser sits in a holder beside the glass box. I use my elbow to squirt liberal amounts into my hand. The left side of my body gets much cleaner than my right, since I don’t have a left hand. I rub my forearm up and down, hoping to spread the soap that way. Scrubbing my extra clothing proves even harder so I kneel and use my elbow to hold each piece against the floor while I brush soap over them.

  Tired, discouraged, and grateful tears mix with the shower water, confusing me. I should stop crying, but no one’s here to see me. No one will know.

  Six minutes end far too soon and I try to restart the shower after the water turns off. It doesn’t work. I even wait a full minute, but the water won’t return. With a reluctant groan, I dress in as few of my dirty clothes as possible, slipping into fresh, but wet, underwear, leggings, and top. Everything else smells of campfire—something I didn’t notice before. Touching the clothes leaves my hand smelling the same. It reminds me a little of home.

  I return to my bed. Has Willow ever had a shower? Has she ever heard of one?

  “God,” I groan. “I’m just obeying You.” But I can’t blame Him. He said go to Ivanhoe. He didn’t
say when. “Jude wasn’t going to take me anymore.” I bite my tongue. Jude apologized. Maybe his apology meant he was going to take me to Ivanhoe. He should have said more with his ‘sorry’.

  I lie in my curtained haven and think. Instead of the anger and conviction I felt about leaving Jude behind, I now recall the other things he’s done for me. He saved my life during the flash flood in the Dregs. He saved us from the angry albinos. He tried to help me when the albinos cut off my hand.

  He said sorry.

  Why couldn’t I remember those things when deciding to board? But my decision wasn’t based on leaving Jude. I don’t want to travel by foot anymore. I don’t want to sleep at the base of headstones or pick ticks out of my skin, or swat the bugs seeking my sweat anymore. I don’t want to spend my Numbers traveling.

  He danced with me, I think, growing more despondent. I made him laugh. He carried my pack. He said he’d take us to Ivanhoe even though he didn’t want to. Will I ever find out what he invented that angered the Council?

  I shouldn’t have left.

  My NAB blinks 7% energy. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, but I need to. I need to contact Hawke for help, but can I expect help when I’ve deserted his friend?

  ~Hawke, I left Jude and Willow. I boarded a train going to Ivanhoe. It’s for the best. Jude and I had a . . . disagreement. The NAB picks up on the hesitation in my voice. I leave it.

  ~ It’s not safe for us to travel together anymore.

  Should I elaborate?

  ~Apparently he got shot because of me.

  Was it my fault?

  ~I think if we’re separate, he’ll be safer.

  Do I really?

  ~I need to find my own way.

  But I don’t want to be alone.

  ~Lastly, my NAB is saying it needs to be charged. How is that done?

  Will Hawke see why I left? Will he see that part of my decision was for Jude’s safety?

  I place the NAB back in my pack, trying to stifle the scent of lemon still attached to its cover. I don’t know how it lingers after all the Dregs water. I’ll write Skelley Chase his new journal entry tomorrow. He’ll like this one.