by Morgan Rice
“This is the last checkpoint,” the soldier informs me. “Then we’re heading straight to the Commander. Your dad, I mean.”
My dad, a commander. I shouldn’t be so surprised. If anyone was going to survive the war and find a way to thrive in spite of it, it was going to be my dad.
I’m surprised to see the tips of trees above me as the truck crawls past the final fence. I’d become so accustomed to the barren desert landscape that the sight of green leaves is shocking. Then, I’m certain in the distance I can hear the sound of running water.
“How do you have trees?” I say. “And water?”
The soldier smiles. “The Commander has turned this place into Eden,” she explains. “We’re completely self-sufficient.”
As I absorb her words, my first feeling is relief. If they’re self-sufficient here then there’s no need for scavenging, no dangerous hunting trips out into the wild.
“Do you take in survivors?” I ask.
The soldier looks at me kindly. “Brooke, I know you have a lot of questions. But I don’t want you to tire yourself out. Why don’t you rest and gather your strength for when you see your dad?”
I know she’s right but I can’t help myself. The sensations inside of me are too great. They all vie for my attention, mixing around in my stomach and making me nauseous. My exhausted body is telling me to rest and recuperate, but my frantic mind is racing through a million thoughts. I’m filled with excitement, but at the same time I’m nervous. I haven’t forgotten the sound of my dad’s hand as he slapped my mom’s cheek the night he left us, voluntarily, to join a war that went on to obliterate everything. Is he even still the same man I remember?
Just then, the truck jolts to a halt.
“We’re here,” the soldier says.
She stands and starts unlatching the flap at the back of the truck. I’m suddenly overcome with fear. What if my dad isn’t the person I want him to be? What if he’s been traumatized by the last four and a half years? He said he would always love me no matter what, but that was before the slaverunners and the arenas and the crazies. That was before the nuclear bombs and the fighter jets.
“Are you having trouble standing?” the soldier asks.
I am, but not in the way she thinks. She thinks I’ve been weakened by my ordeal out in the desert. In reality, my legs seem to have turned to jelly beneath me. My whole body trembles as she helps me to my feet, guiding me by my elbow down onto a step, then down again onto the ground.
I’m standing on paving slabs with moss growing up between them. I can smell grass and vegetation, and hear the sound of running water in the distance. The air is cool, not like the painful, sweltering heat of the Texan desert I’ve just come from.
I feel the soldier put gentle pressure on my shoulder, and I can feel that she’s urging me on. Another truck has pulled up beside me, and Bree is being led down to the ground, trembling in much the same way as me. When she sees me, her eyes brim with tears. I know Dad always told me not to cry, but the sight of her alive makes me well up. I can still hear her screams in my head as she begged me not to give up back in the desert, to keep moving. I couldn’t do it for her. I’m only here by a miracle. But if she holds any resentment toward me because of it, she doesn’t show it. She rushes over and throws herself into my arms. She’s been patched up well by the soldier she rode with, and is no longer as feeble as she was back in the desert.
“Did they tell you?” she says through her sobs. “Dad is alive.”
“They told me,” I gasp, stroking her hair beneath my fingers.
“You were right, Brooke. You were right all along.”
I was. But people still died because of me. I will have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.
Finally, Bree lets me go. I can see the other trucks pulling up behind us, and see Ben emerge from one. He looks as frail as he did when we first got to know each other back in the prisons of Arena 1. But he has transformed since then. He is leaner, more muscular, and the sensitivity I could always see in his eyes seems to have hardened. Like me, survival has taken its toll on him.
Bree slips her hand in mine, pulling me back to the moment. I turn away from the trucks. As much as I want to see each of our friends arrive safely, I know my dad is waiting for me. I can’t prolong this anymore. It’s time to face him.
The soldier who’d been riding with me gestures past some palm trees.
“He’s over there,” she says.
Bree and I squeeze one another’s hands as we take small steps along the paving slabs. The vegetation grows thicker and lusher as we go, forming a thick canopy above that plunges us into cooling shadows. Then all at once, I see a figure.
We stop dead. There is a man down the path. He’s wearing a military uniform. His hair is completely gray. He stands with his hands resting just lightly behind his back. I know the stance. “At ease.” It is my dad.
I can’t get the words out. I try to call to him but the only noise that comes from my throat is a croak.
It’s enough for him to hear. He spins to face us. There is no denying it; though time has aged him considerably, the man standing before me is my dad.
“Brooke,” he gasps, staring at me like he can’t believe what he is seeing. “Bree.”
And then we’re running, both of us, full speed, finding reserves of energy from deep within our weakened bodies. Dad spreads his arms wide and we run into them. He sweeps us tightly into him. He feels so solid, so real. This is not the man in my dreams; this is my real dad, alive and strong.
I don’t want to show my weakness in front of him, but Bree is sobbing uncontrollably, and I just cannot hold back anymore. My tears begin to fall.
We’re all shaking with emotion. I clutch onto Bree and nestle my head into the crook of my dad’s neck, letting my tears drop onto his uniform one by one. It is then that I realize, for the first time in my entire life, my dad is crying too.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
We stay like that for a long time, holding one another and weeping. It is like we never want to let go.
“You’ve both grown so much,” Dad says finally, drawing back to look at us. He looks Bree up and down. “Eleven years old,” he says, shaking his head as though in disbelief. She was seven last time he saw her. Then he looks at me. “Seventeen.”
I nod. I wish he could have seen us back when we were in Fort Noix. We were healthy then, our muscles stronger, our hair and bodies clean. He would have been able to see firsthand how well I’ve looked after Bree. Instead, she looks more like a mangy cat.
“You’ve changed too,” I say.
He laughs, sadly, and points to his gray hair. “I look older.”
It’s been four years since we last saw each other, but Dad seems to have aged so much more. The stress of war has taken its toll on him.
He reaches up to wipe a strand of hair tenderly from off my face. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Brooke,” he says. “But I never gave up hope. I thought of you, both of you, every single day.”
Tears blur my vision.
“How long has the camp been here?” I ask. “Is it yours? Did you build it?”
I know I sound like an eager child, but I want to know everything that has happened to him over the last four and a half years. How he came to defect from the army and create this place.
But Dad puts a finger to his lips to quiet me, and smiles. “We can talk about everything later. But first I think you should go to the hospital for health checks.”
He eyes the metal collar around my neck, which has given me sores and rashes.
Bree slides her hand into his and holds on tight. “Will you come with us?” she asks.
“Of course,” he says, kindly, smiling down at her.
While in the medical ward, I finally have the metal collar removed from around my neck. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. The doctor gives me an ointment to help the wounds heal.
“Can we see our frie
nds?” I ask the doctor as I take another gulp of the sugar and saltwater solution she’s given me.
“Please,” Bree adds.
The doctor looks at Dad for his approval. I can’t help but swell with pride, seeing the way everyone looks up to him. He is clearly well respected.
Dad nods, and the doctor leads us through the ward to where Charlie is sleeping, with Penelope sitting on the end of his bed.
“That’s Charlie,” Bree tells Dad with an air of pride. “Brooke rescued him from an arena. And this is Penelope.”
She strokes the Chihuahua behind the ear. Despite the ordeal we’ve been through, Penelope is looking well. If it weren’t for her missing eye, she would look the picture of perfect health.
“You do have pets here, don’t you?” Bree asks Dad, wide-eyed.
“Of course,” he replies.
“Phew,” she says, clearly relieved to know we won’t have to fight to keep Penelope like we did with the Commander in Fort Noix.
Charlie murmurs and opens his eyes. As soon as he sees Bree, he breaks into a huge grin. Bree hugs him tightly and Penelope snuggles in. The three of them stay like that for a long, long time.
“It was touch and go,” the doctor informs me. “His dehydration was so severe he had a seizure.”
I press my hand to my mouth, alarmed at the thought of poor, sweet Charlie fitting.
“Will he be okay?” I ask.
The doctor nods. “He’s had the same fluid solution as you and Bree. He’s on the mend.”
I’m so relieved to know Charlie will be okay. I don’t know what Bree would do without him.
In the next bed along is Ben. His usually pale skin has been badly sunburned, making him a very sore-looking red color. Parts of his skin have been bandaged to stop the blisters from becoming infected.
“Ben,” I say, taking his hand. “This is my dad, Laurence.”
My dad would never shake hands with someone. Instead, he salutes Ben.
“Ben was living on Catskills Mountain, too,” I tell Dad. “He helped me rescue Bree from the slaverunners.”
Despite his sunburn, I can see Ben blush. “Only because Brooke helped save me from Arena One,” he says shyly.
I can see my dad’s eyebrows rise. He’s not usually one for outward emotion, but I can practically see the questions in his eyes asking me how, exactly, we escaped from an arena. I’m almost excited at the prospect of telling him that we didn’t just escape, but that I killed three of their most prized fighters and then killed their leader, all while snake venom swirled in my bloodstream.
“I look forward to getting to know you, Ben,” Dad says.
“You too, sir,” Ben replies, looking as awkward as a boy meeting his prom date’s parents. Then he tips his eyes to me. “You did it, Brooke,” he whispers, squeezing my hand tightly in his. I can see tears glittering in the corners of his soft, blue eyes. “I always believed in you.”
I squeeze his hand back, overcome with emotion.
Next I take my dad over to Ryan’s bed. It’s only now in this clean hospital setting that I realize how disheveled Ryan has become since we left Fort Noix. His hair has grown a little longer, softening his look. Normally, he’d be the sort of clean-shaven, buzz-cut kind of guy my dad would immediately respect. But with his unkempt appearance he looks much more boylike. His arm is in a sling, his dislocated shoulder having been injured further by supporting the weight of Molly and having to carry Jack.
“Where is Jack?” I ask, expecting to see him sleeping on the end of the bed like Penelope was with Charlie.
Ryan looks at me sadly. “He didn’t make it,” he says.
Bree lets out a sob. Grief washes over me. Jack had been a trusted ally, fighting side by side with us since day one. He even saved our lives back in the tunnels in Toledo. To have lost him now seems so unfair.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to Ryan, squeezing his good arm.
He nods, but I can tell he’s not ready to talk about it. Jack was his best friend. When others died around him, Ryan always had Jack. The loss will take a long time to heal.
“Where’s Molly?” I say, realizing that the bed beside Ryan’s is empty.
But before he has a chance to answer, I look up and see a shock of ginger hair peeking through a gap in a curtain around a bed a few down from where we stand. I’m in two minds about seeing Molly again. Because of her, Stephan and Zeke were left behind in Memphis. If Molly hadn’t lied, perhaps I’d have been able to save them. But despite the feelings of anger inside of me, I’m glad that she’s here. Molly had it worse than any of us back in the desert. She is my friend, after all, and no matter how disappointed I am in the decision she made back in Memphis, I still love her.
I prepare myself for the sight that awaits me, knowing full well her leg will have been amputated because of the bite she sustained from the radiated wild dogs. But as I approach her bed, the doctor quickly rushes over and blocks me from proceeding.
“Brooke, maybe it’s time for another saline solution,” she says.
“In a minute,” I reply, trying to move past her. “I need to see Molly first.”
The doctor becomes more insistent. “I really think you should have another drink now. Please, this way.”
Bree can tell something’s up. She ducks past the doctor quick as a flash and hauls open the curtain surrounding Molly. As I look over the doctor’s shoulder, I see Bree suddenly halt and gasp.
“Bree,” I say, feeling my heart begin to thump. “What is it?”
The doctor finally drops her arms and sighs loudly. “Your friend didn’t survive,” she tells me.
The words hit me like a punch in the gut. “What?” I cry, barging past her. My stomach churns as I hobble over to Molly’s bedside.
She’s covered in a white sheet, and her skin is so pale it makes her ginger hair even more strikingly red. She looks peaceful in death in a way she never did in life. It’s like her fight is finally over.
“The bite on her leg was too infected,” the doctor explains, coming up beside me. “Even amputation couldn’t have saved her. We gave her pain relief and then she slipped away. I didn’t want you to know in case it caused too much shock to your system. I’m sorry.”
Bree and I stand side by side, looking over Molly’s lifeless body.
Dad grips my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “We will give her a proper funeral.”
Bree leans down and kisses Molly’s cold cheek.
“Come on,” Dad says, guiding us gently away from Molly. “I think it’s time to go home.”
Home. The word echoes in my mind, feeling unreal to me. I can hardly believe we have a home again. A real home. That for the first time in four years, we will be a family again.
Dad leads us out of the hospital and through the compound. Everyone we pass salutes him. He is so well respected and it fills me with pride to be his daughter.
“So you were living in the mountain cabin?” Dad asks as we walk.
“Yes,” I say. “Bree and me. Sasha too. She was killed by slaverunners.”
He looks downcast. “I didn’t think to look for you there,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I say, frowning.
“I came back for you,” he says.
A pit opens up in my stomach. I made us leave home. I told Mom there was no point waiting for him anymore, that he’d left us for good. I’d been wrong.
“It was my fault we left,” I stammer. “I thought you would never come back for us.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You did the right thing, Brooke,” he tells me. “When I got back, the place was bombed. The whole street. If you’d stayed, you would have died.” His voice becomes quieter. “I thought that maybe you had.”
I shake my head. “We were in the mountains all that time. For four years. We only left about six or seven months ago.”
“I’m impressed with how well you coped,” he says.
I shrug. “I didn’t have much choice.”
Dad falls silent. I hadn’t meant the comment to be pointed, but my anger at him abandoning us is evident in my tone.
“Here’s the house,” Dad says, gesturing to a brick bungalow. “Let’s get inside. You can wash while I make something to eat.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You cook?”
It sounds so domestic. So unlike my father.
“Badly,” he replies. “But yes, I cook.”
He opens up the door to the bungalow and we all go inside. When we’d entered Neena’s house back at Fort Noix, I’d been overwhelmed by the smallest of things—the real pillow and duvet, the chest of drawers, clean clothes. But entering Dad’s house is even more surreal. It looks like a completely normal house, like the ones that existed before the war blew them to smithereens. He shows us the living room, the bathroom, the bedrooms, each one furnished and decorated.
“I can’t believe this place,” I say, awestruck by the fact that this will actually get to be our home, that we can live in this place together as a family.
We follow Dad into the kitchen.
“Do you girls like bread?” he says. “Jam?”
“I love jam!” Bree exclaims. “Brooke once found a house in the mountains full of provisions. She brought me back a jar of jam. It was delicious.”
Dad smiles. He seems proud of me, of my resourcefulness and the way I took care of my sister. It’s the best feeling in the world.
We sit down and tuck into the jam sandwiches, relaying stories about the time I managed to get sap from the tree, how I drove his old motorbike and sidecar down the mountainside at 100 miles an hour without crashing, and how I hunted a deer. But the more we speak, the harder it becomes for me to ignore the dark cloud hanging over us. The unspoken words seem to be swelling around us, crushing down on us. None of us wants to talk about it, to rip the scab off that old wound. But I can’t help myself. I need answers. I need to know why he abandoned us all those years ago.
