I ran away from the tent. I ran for the trains while I could still remember their names.
I ran away.
A whistle pierced the sky. People shouted. The train chugged forward.
The train picked up speed and ate up the yards between it and me and the horn blew again and the white headlight consumed the night sky and the ground. I would jump while I could still remember to jump. I would put the train between me and my friends.
I was always the one to keep them safe and this would keep them safe, from me.
I jumped.
“Remember the Red Place”
Posted September 29th at 6:30PM on Do More Than Survive: How to THRIVE as a Runaway
We don’t know if you’re really gone or not. But if you’re not, maybe you’ll read this and know we are all still alive because of you. Mary, you gave us a real chance. We got the cure and it’s, well it’s not awesome, but it’s better than what you went through. We want you to know they had us inside for weeks, but they took care of us, and when things got crazy Spencer got us out. Ano helped. He says to text that he misses you.
I miss you too—this is Gabbi.
To anyone else reading this. They’re trying to deny everything and pretend that it’s under control. They don’t have it under control. Maybe they did for awhile, but that isn’t the truth any longer.
Mary—if somehow you are still alive and aren’t a crazy V, meet us at the place. You know the one. The red place in the field. We’ll look different but it’ll still be us.
To the rest of you. Don’t bother leaving a comment asking where it is. We won’t tell you.
Feast of Weeds Book 2
CONTAMINATION
HER MEMORIES WON'T STAY DEAD.
More than anything, eighteen-year-old Corrina wants Dylan to love her as much as her parents loved each other. But when a new virus unleashes violence that devastates their neighborhood, Dylan is kidnapped and Corrina uncovers a terrible secret.
A crude vaccination, and now Corrina’s immune from the virus ravaging the city—but the cure changes her memories in bizarre ways.
With help from a group of runaways, Corrina must survive a world gone mad if she’s to find the boy she still loves. But when Dylan discovers what she's become, will he still love her?
To all the readers who won't let the past define them, even during an apocalypse.
***
November
***
***
Which one should I talk about first, death or love? Or are they the same? I don’t know how it was with anyone else. Dylan and I were holding hands on the sofa when those people came. I said to him I loved him. But I didn’t know then how much. I had no idea how much—
Chapter 1
There was something wrong with the calendula flowers. The leaves had turned from celery green into a sickly yellow with spots.
This was a problem. I used the orange flowers to make a salve for Mr. Sidner’s dogs because the pads of their feet often cracked during the winter. He’d tried everything: antiseptic spray, socks, allergy pills, the cone, and the only thing that worked was my lotion.
But the lotion wouldn’t work without the calendula.
As I snipped off the offending parts, an astringent scent made my eyes water. The sticky oil transferred to my fingers. I hoped whatever sickness had befallen the calendula would disappear with my care.
I tossed those offending leaves in the trash as if I could throw away the past few days. My attempt made a pathetic pile in the garbage.
My eye caught on Dylan’s waitering shirt casually thrown over the dining chair.
Did she know that shirt? Had they talked about me? Had she even known about me?
“Enough,” I said to the cold air of the empty kitchen. I would make the calendula grow back. I would make Mr. Sidner’s dogs their salve. Maybe coffee grounds would perk up the plant. Ms. Roche always liked to use that trick in the garden at work.
I pulled out the French press and ground some beans while staring out the window. Last night's chill had formed moisture droplets inside the single-pane glass. I rubbed my hands together for warmth—we’d stopped turning on the heat weeks ago in hopes of saving a little money.
The teapot overflowed with water and splashed onto my jeans. I dumped out the excess, set the pot to heat on the stove.
A shadow flitted across the side of the house next door.
I leaned over the sink for a better look.
The drops distorted the view of the strip of weeds that separated our duplex from the other houses. Was it some person scouting our neighborhood or just a loose dog? Some of the grass did seem to shift.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I braced my wrists against the sink and leaned over. The wind, probably, but still—then I heard a sound, like someone singing. I shook my head, trying to determine the direction of the noise.
“Are you trying to climb into the sink?”
I jumped, banging my hip on the countertop rim. “Ow! You scared the hell out me.”
Dylan had put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I always liked how he would roll them to his elbows to wash our cooking pots by hand, sudsing his forearms and soaking the front of his shirt to a translucent white. He had a smile that disarmed many a salesperson, male or female, it didn't matter.
He smiled and raised an eyebrow at my wet jeans.
I rolled my eyes. “The teapot overflowed.”
“It’s a good look on you.”
“Anyway,” I said, forestalling any further jokes at my expense, but glad our first words to each other hadn’t been about last night. “Do you hear the singing?”
He opened the fridge and pulled out the orange juice. I stared at his back, his brown hair, his neck still damp from the shower. I didn’t think I wanted too much for us: a big, sunny yard, a garden to grow food, two children, three dogs, and someone who loved me like my father had loved my mother before they’d both died. But sometimes I felt sick at night with how far away we were from it.
If Dylan and I could just speed through this hard stuff, maybe things could be better on the other side.
The singing grew louder and—familiar.
He still didn’t answer. He had that half-smile on his face—that joking smile he got when not answering me was part of his secret master plan for something. He walked out of the kitchen.
I followed him and then stared at the speakers like they were living things.
“I was going through some boxes last week and came across the CD. I thought about throwing it away.” He faced the wall, as if embarrassed. “And I couldn’t do it. I played it, not…expecting it to affect me, and then,” he shrugged, turned to me and produced a lopsided grin, “couldn’t get you off my mind after that.”
“Haha,” I said and couldn't help but smile back. Dylan had gifted that CD to me after we’d started dating. All twenty-three variations of Corrina, Corrina. “I’m glad you found it.”
We sat on the sofa and listened to Bob Dylan’s version, his favorite, and then Taj Mahal’s version, my favorite.
I wrapped my hand in his, let the music soak into me, and refused to think about how all the people I loved most in the world eventually found a way to abandon me.
“Look,” he said. “I need to tell you—”
“Please, Dylan. We made a deal.” He always did this. He couldn't let things go.
I focused on the greenery framing our patio door. It formed the illusion of lush, vibrant growth. A bright red pot for the rosemary, a paisley-printed blue pot for the thyme, plants in several stands, a strawberry hanger waiting for spring.
“Corrina.”
I tore my gaze away from the patio garden and looked into his blue eyes. They showed kindness, anxiousness, guilt.
“I’ve missed you,” I said.
He flinched. “This is important. I can’t just keep this from you.” He ran a hand through his hair.
The song ended. I steeled myself for whatever Dylan t
hought he needed to say next.
And yes, I knew how ridiculous all this would sound to most people. Jane had lectured me many times. Yes, I knew I was eighteen and he was twenty. Yes, I knew there were other fish in the sea and all that crap.
None of that mattered to me.
But if I knew everything, if I could imagine every touch and kiss and smell, how could I ever forgive him? If he knew the same about what I’d done—if our mistakes took the form of real people, how could either of us banish them into the past?
“If we're going to make this work,” Dylan said, “if we're going to be real with each other and stop hiding what we're afraid of—”
“I'm afraid I'm not good enough.” I hated how weak this made me, admitting it out loud, but it wasn't news to either of us. I could fight with the best of them. I could stand up for what I thought was right and other people be damned. But when it came to someone I loved, all that self-confidence evaporated.
A knocking sound started. Thinking he must be tapping his foot against the coffee table, I looked down, but his legs were still.
We both looked to the glass patio door at the same moment.
The dirt-caked face of a middle-aged man pressed up against the glass. Mud-covered hands flanked either side of his face, and he was tapping his fingertips in unison with the next song.
“What the hell?” Dylan said.
The strangled ring of the doorbell cut through the house. Someone pounded on the front door.
“Call 911,” Dylan said. He stood up and turned off the CD, but the man continued tapping as if he hadn’t seen Dylan move.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed.
“Door’s locked,” Dylan said from behind me. “It’s okay, I remember locking it.”
Nothing but a strange tone. I tried again.
Fear squeezed my stomach. I forced myself to stop compulsively dialing. “My phone must be broken.” I tried to remember when we had last paid the bill. “Or maybe they shut off service.”
“Dammit,” Dylan said. Tension strained the veins along his neck.
“Look at him,” I whispered. “He’s crazy, he’s gotta be on drugs, right?”
“Come here, Blitz,” Dylan said.
But Blitz was dead. That knowledge dawned across Dylan's face for the hundredth time.
It was an automatic thing for both of us. We had adopted him not knowing he already had cancer. He would have thrown his 100 pounds of mutt at this guy and used his deepest, fiercest growl. Neighbor kids knew better than to jump over our fence for a lost ball. They rang the doorbell. Salesman never pushed their way through our front door during their pitch. They took three steps back down the walkway.
But four weeks ago Blitz’s pain had become too great.
The pounding on the front door started again. A piercing “Dylan?” A pause, and then, “Corrina?”
“Jane?” I stood up from the sofa.
“Are you crazy?” Dylan said. “Don't answer the door, Corrina. You don't know it's her.”
“It’s Jane. That was her voice.” She lived on the same block as us. It had been her parents who had rented me a room so I could prove to the courts I deserved to leave the group home. I would know the voice of my best friend anywhere.
“Stay here,” Dylan said. “None of this feels okay.”
“Too bad we couldn't have said that to each other a month ago.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.
He moved toward the front door but I was already at the linoleum entryway. My shoes squeaked on the plastic. I wanted to throw open the door, but Dylan might be right. I peered through the eye hole.
Jane was alone on the porch.
Dylan pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed.
“Let it go,” I said. “She's out there.”
“I don't care who’s out there. You're not opening the door.”
“We can't ignore her!”
He sighed. “Step aside.”
My blood was pounding in my ears and I wanted to keep fighting with him. It felt easier than trying to talk things out and admit what horrible people we'd been to each other.
I forced myself to step back.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” He unlocked the door and Jane burst through. Behind her, a layer of fog partially obscured the street. Shadows, or maybe a trick of the light. A chill swept across my skin as she rushed inside. I slammed the door behind her.
“They got into my house,” Jane said, breathless. “They came in through the back and I ran out front, but there are more on the street—”
“More what?” I said.
Dylan’s arm wrapped around my waist. I froze, caught between wanting to lean into him and wanting to throw off his arm.
Jane seemed to stare at Dylan’s arm. “—at least a dozen more.”
“I’m getting the gun,” he said and let go. I felt the loss of his body heat like a flu ache.
We owned one gun, a cheap handgun that always jammed. His father had given it to him. Dylan had described once watching his father pry out a twisted bullet—digging in with his fingers and a letter opener. That was when they had still been talking.
And now that gun was all we had.
“And my knife,” I said, remembering the big chef's knife in the kitchen.
Dylan left to gather our meager arsenal.
“We’ll be okay,” I said, reaching out to hug Jane. “We just have to watch out for each other.”
She brushed me off. “You didn’t see them.”
Dylan returned, handed me the knife, gave Jane a baseball bat we kept in the closet, and held the handgun nervously at his side.
“Are you seriously going to shoot someone?” I asked. “He doesn’t look like he has any weapons.”
“Even if he doesn’t, someone else might,” he said.
“This is not Krista all over again.”
“Don't bring her up right now.” The look on his face told me he'd already been thinking about his sister.
“It's going to be okay,” I said.
“I don't think so,” Jane said.
“Stop it, both of you,” I said.
“We should see if the front is clear and leave. Try someone else's phone,” Dylan said. “Jane, did you call the cops?”
“I tried, but my cell phone’s dead.”
“Battery dead?” He asked, “or—”
“No, the phone works,” she said. “I keep getting a beeping signal. I think the network's down.”
I shook my head. I headed back to the living room.
Dylan grabbed my arm. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see if the guy is still there. Why didn’t he break the glass? Why didn’t he yell anything at us?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Dylan said. “Plenty of people do crazy things all the time!”
“Seriously, why don't you two just get it over with and break up?” Jane said.
“Because I still love her,” Dylan said without missing a beat.
They looked at each other like my foster parents had when they'd been talking about me behind my back.
“Then can we save the arguing and making up until later?” Jane said. “There are slightly more important, sort-of-serious, things to deal with at this moment.”
Jane and I had grown distant over these last few months, but I didn't understand how she could say such cruel things. I thought about how this morning was supposed to be a new beginning for Dylan and me. “I’ll be careful,” I said in a softer voice.
“You shouldn’t—”
“She’s not going to listen,” Jane said. “You know how she gets.”
Dylan gave Jane a weird look. “I’ll go first.” He held the gun in front of him and crept into the short hallway, peered around the wall toward the patio door, stilled.
I became impatient and pressed in next to him.
My breath caught in my throat. The intruder had smeared yellowish saliva across the glass.
&
nbsp; I didn’t stop moving until I was within a couple feet of the glass. I told myself not to show fear. If people see fear they take advantage of it.
“You get away!” I waved my knife. “I’ll cut you up. I’ll do it. Get out of my backyard!”
Dylan came up next to me.
The intruder began banging his head against the glass. The dull thud shook the entire door.
“You hear us?” Dylan said. “I have a gun!”
No change.
The knife began to feel slippery in my hands. “Institution?” I whispered. There was one a few blocks away.
“Maybe,” Dylan said.
“We can’t hurt him if he’s sick.”
“Why not?” Jane responded from behind me.
In spite of the panic of the moment, maybe because of it, I saw this scene as if from a movie, as if I was watching from outside myself. Jane carried the baseball bat like an Amazonian warrior, her blonde hair framed around her hazel eyes, her tall body ready to throw its weight into a swing. Wild fear flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes. I hated her for a second. “He’s sick,” I said. “He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“They came into my house. A whole gang of them tried to put their dirty hands on me,” Jane said, raising her chin. “They deserve whatever they get.”
“I don’t think he knows what he’s doing,” Dylan said, “but he’s still dangerous. If he tries anything…” He raised the gun and pointed it at the man’s chest. “I will shoot you.” Then he glanced at me before refocusing on the intruder. “But I agree. He’s obviously sick.”
“Oh, this is stupid,” Jane said. “He’s crazy. He’ll kill us all and, what? We let him because he sick?”
“We’ll do whatever we need to protect ourselves. But if we can help him, we should,” Dylan said.
“And what about the others outside?” Jane demanded.
“We’re not outside.” I examined the man’s street clothes. A rip or two in his jeans, but that could have been how he bought them. Dirt covered his hands and wrists, but otherwise he wore a clean collared shirt. His face was flushed and slick with sweat, his hair thin and receding. He kept his eyes closed. His forehead formed a pink circle where he kept hitting it. Suddenly a little blood streaked across the glass.
Feast of Weeds (Books 1--4) Page 7
