World Of Shell And Bone

by Adriana Ryan

  I lie back down.

  When I am shaken awake, the darkness is complete. I can’t see anything. “C-Carlos?”

  “Yes,” he whispers. “Here.” I feel something spongy pressed into my hand—more dried fruit. “Eat that and see if you can stand up.”

  I do as he asks. I am shaky on my feet, but the water and rest have helped. The sugar from the fruit will give me more energy soon.

  He helps me out of the tent.

  “Where are we going?” My voice is still hoarse and low, so I don’t have to do too much to whisper.

  “Toronto.”

  I look around. “Where is Drew?”

  Carlos’s obsidian eyes are luminous in the starlight. “Sleepin’. And we’re gonna try to keep it that way.”

  I don’t say anything else as he grabs my hand and leads the way. We crunch through brush and dirt much louder than I would like, but it is hard to see in the starlight, and I stumble and fall many times. Carlos is patient, but not much quieter than I am.

  I expect Drew to reach out and grab my arm any minute, or simply to fire his rifle into the back of my head. I wonder if I will feel a split second’s panic before that happens—will the hairs at the nape of my neck stir, alerting me to what my conscious mind wouldn’t know?

  But we scramble out of the desert and onto the paved road without incident. It is deserted. Carlos clomps forward with direction.

  “Where are we going?” I wonder if I have actually died, if I will turn around and find Naiad and Io and Haumea in a line behind me, with Carlos helping us cross the river Styx.

  “Thirteen miles west; le marché noir.”

  Le marché noir, the black market. There are several of these across the country, always on the outskirts of towns, where law-abiding citizens wouldn’t go.

  I’m a bit concerned at Carlos’s proclamation that it’s thirteen miles west. Right now, I cannot imagine walking more than forty paces. But I put the last of the fruit into my mouth and chew it down. The alternative is going back to Drew, and that is no alternative at all.

  We’ve been marching a long while, Carlos slightly in front of me, both of us hugging the shadows alongside the somewhat paved road. There is no one out at this time of night; it is too dangerous. I notice for the first time that Carlos has changed out of his black Rad uniform and into a gray-colored outfit that will provide him more cover, should we be spotted by the law.

  He glances over his shoulder. “Drew hurt the baby?”

  I shake my head, then realize he can’t see me because he’s turned back around. “No. He threatened to if I wouldn’t…let him.”

  “Figured as much. That’s why we’re runnin’. Drew, he’s got a history.”

  “A history of what?”

  Another glance. “Let’s just say Drew’s got a nasty appetite for hurtin’ women. And ever since he got kicked out of Tomas’s group, he’s been holding on to a grudge toward you. Says it’s your fault he got booted. Crazy son of a bitch.”

  I process that for a moment with a dizzying sense of stepping back from a steep cliff’s edge a moment before going over. “Oh. Why did you help me?”

  “You remind me of my daughter. Raised her till she was eight. Had the same big brown eyes, serious face.” After a moment, when I don’t respond, Carlos continues, “Drew convinced me and Nathan that we needed to make our own team. Said Tomas was just holdin’ us back. By the time he was shot in the knee, we’d been making plans for a long time.

  I was taken in by him, I’ll admit. Drew can be pretty charming when he wants. Anyway, once we started camping out and doin’ our own thing, Drew’s not-so-charming side came out. Every now and then a Guard or Escort would stray too far from her company, not realizin’ we were camped out there in the desert. One woman against two men, him and Nathan…well, it didn’t go well.

  When I saw what he had in mind, what he got off on, I decided I’d split. When you came along, the time felt right.” He coughs up something phlegm-y.

  I feel myself begin to shake, and tamp down the thoughts and emotions that threaten to engulf me on the little dusty road. This is not the time to wonder what I’d been on the brink of, what horrors I would’ve been forced to endure. “Aren’t you worried he’s going to come looking for you? For us?”

  “That’s why we’re heading to le marché noir. Load up on some goodies.”

  I could imagine what he meant by “goodies,” though I’d never heard the term before. Weapons; probably heavy-duty weapons. “Will you help me get to the Asylum?”

  “I can’t help you with that, lady, sorry. You and me are gonna split when we get to le marché noir. I’ll help you stock up on whatever you want, but you’re just a liability after that, no offense.”

  I couldn’t expect much more from him. Maybe I could learn something new at le marché noir. There were usually people with information there; information the government didn’t want the citizenry to have.

  I wonder where Shale is tonight. If he is thinking of me. If he’s wondering whether I’m safe. I refuse to wonder if he’s alive—even thinking that would be a betrayal.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Thirteen miles pass in a fog of fatigue, fear, and numbness, all alternating through my body like psychedelic lights from before the War. At times I am so tired, I’m sure I fall asleep for miles on my feet. At other times, panic grabs me by the throat so I can’t breathe. I hear footsteps behind us, laughter as Drew plots which part of my body to shatter with bullets. But on we progress, and as the day gets lighter, so does my worry.

  At dawn, we arrive at le marché noir to find it teeming with activity and noise. I’d imagined a dark, shaded street with people scuttling like beetles, refusing to look at each other for fear of being recognized. But here, people laugh and chat with each other like old friends. There is an atmosphere of party, of being on vacation and liking the people you are with. I suppose out here, miles from civilization, they aren’t afraid of being arrested.

  Peddlers with their wares set out on blankets eye Carlos and me as we walk past. Some of them call out prices, but I’m clueless whether they’re competitive or not. My head swivels back and forth as I take in everything—glass bottles in mottled purple and flesh pink and the green of the sky after a bad acid rainfall; copper pots and pans that remind me of Shale so I have to look away; delicate sea shells in every size, shape, and color.

  Carlos turns down an alley that smells like urine. I follow him, my stomach clenching when I see men leering at me. I flash back to Drew pushing his hand between my thighs. I remember the feeling of fog wrapping itself around my head as he pressed me into the mat with his weight. I force myself to keep walking.

  We stop at a small doorway, and Carlos knocks. A man who is easily the widest person I have ever seen opens the door. They say Before was a time filled with people who indulged in hedonistic pleasures of every sort. People were larger, more complacent, used to getting everything their hearts desired.

  It is different when you see it in person than when you read about it in textbooks at school. I’m surprised by the raw sadness that overcomes me at all we have lost as a people—the feeling of innate satisfaction of a meal well-deserved or eating a sweet simply because you crave it.

  The man steps aside when he sees Carlos.

  “Where’s Drew?” he asks, when the door has shut behind us.

  Carlos darts me a warning look, but other than that, his face is placid. “Couldn’t make it today. Just me and the female.”

  The man considers this, picking his teeth with a woman’s hair pin. “I don’t want no trouble,” he says after a long pause.

  “Then we’re the same.” Carlos’s eyes don’t waver from the man’s.

  Finally, the man sighs. “Alright. What you in the market for?”

  Carlos reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a bundle of cloth. He unrolls it, and I see fat biscuits of gold. It looks unnatural and garish to me after years of seeing white plastic vouchers.


  “Anything you can give me for this.”

  Carlos and the man head down a flight of stairs to presumably look at weapons. The man sends a woman to sit with me. She is as diminutive as he was large, her arms and legs ropy and well-muscled. She frowns as I sway on my feet. “You sit. I’ll bring water.”

  After I’ve had a glass and a half, I lean my head back against the wall and luxuriate in the feeling of being off my feet. I am sure they are swelling; I don’t dare take off my boots because I fear I won’t be able to get them back on again.

  “Who are you?” The woman asks this without judgment or malice. There is open curiosity on her face. “Never seen Carlos with no woman before. ’Specially not in no Guard uniform.”

  I rest my hand on my stomach. “I’m…no one, really. Just looking for my sister. She was taken to the Asylum in Toronto years ago. I’m told she’s not well.”

  The woman sucks on her lower lip, shakes her head. “The Asylums in big trouble, now that the government tryin’ to get rid of ’em all. Draining the food and water, they say.”

  “That’s why I have to get there fast. Do you know anyone who might help me?”

  “Don’t know if anyone can help you. You might be better off lookin’ in the refugee camps, see if she escaped already.”

  The nonchalance with which these two pieces of information are tossed my way boggle my mind. One: I did not know refugee camps existed, or what they offer refuge from, and two: why would she think Ceres might have escaped?

  I ask her these questions, trying hard not to sound desperate. I want to shake her until her teeth rattle in her head and the information falls out, but of course, I do not.

  “Radio said there was a big riot at the Asylum in Toronto couple days ago. Many Défectueux got out and ran.” She shrugs.

  Carlos and the large man come back up the stairs. Carlos carries a large black bag, and I can guess at the contents. I am amazed that he thinks he will be able to get by like that, without Maintenance and Escorts converging on him like flies on a bloody carcass.

  “This refugee camp, can you tell me where it is?” I ask the woman urgently as Carlos and the man discuss something, their heads close together.

  The woman looks deep into my eyes for a moment. Then she says, “Go outside, back up the alley. Three peddlers down, you’ll see a red door. Knock on it and ask for Philip. He’s a good ’un, he’ll take ya.”

  I stand up, and on impulse, grasp her hand with both of mine. “Thank you.”

  After a pause, she hands me a small tin container. “Water,” she says. “Keep the baby healthy.”

  I stare at her for a long minute before nodding and following Carlos outside.

  Carlos goes up the alley, so I go with him. When we’re back out on the first street, he turns to me. “This is where we part ways,” he says.

  “Thank you. For getting me out.”

  He reaches his hand out as if to shake mine, but then presses something into my palm. I look down at a few gold coins and a small revolver.

  “Keep them somewhere safe,” he says. “And if you see Drew, use the gun before you wait for an explanation.”

  I nod, my throat working. I feel hollow. “Where are you headed?”

  “Better if we don’t know each other’s locations. If we’re captured, we can’t rat each other out.” He looks away. “You take care of yourself, you hear? And the kid.”

  “I will. You do the same, Carlos.”

  He takes off in the opposite direction of where I need to go. After I stand for a moment, I put the revolver and coins in my pocket and begin to walk. Before I reach the red door, I stop at a peddler’s blanket and, using one of the coins Carlos gave me, buy a little conch shell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Philip is barely a man. I don’t think he’s over eighteen. His face is pure and heartbreakingly eager. When I mention who sent me his way, he promises to take me anywhere I need. I tell him I want to go to the refugee camp, and he looks pained.

  “That’s a bad place, madam. A very bad place.”

  I don’t want him to elaborate, I don’t want my resolve to come under any burden, so I say, “Be that as it may, I need to go there. Will you take me?”

  He sighs, then nods and points to the back of the building, where a small shed’s been constructed. Inside the shed is a hulking, tarp-covered shape. Philip pulls off the tarp to reveal a government-regimented taxi. I don’t know how he has managed to procure one for himself, and I don’t ask.

  Leaning in the front window, he pulls out a taxi driver’s uniform and pulls it on. Then he gets in and gestures to the back door. I climb in and try not to remember my previous taxi ride with Shale. When the car chugs to life, Philip turns to survey me. I cannot imagine what he sees in my face.

  “Are you sure you want to go, madam?”

  “There’s nothing else in my life but this,” I answer.

  He turns back around and we are on our way.

  The roads are mostly empty, but occasionally we pass by a clot of Guards or Escorts. They eye us, like those old paintings where the people’s eyes seem to follow you no matter where you are in the room. My breath catches in my throat every time it happens. I’m sure they know I’m an imposter in spite of my Guard uniform. But Philip, with his sweet heart-shaped face and easy smile, just keeps driving. The scrutiny doesn’t seem to move him, and I wonder how he manages it.

  When I ask, he laughs.

  “I keep going because there’s nothing else to do,” he says.

  After about forty minutes of driving, he turns into the desert. We rattle past bushes and trees every couple of miles. I bounce in my seat, my bladder screaming for release.

  Finally, Phillip pulls up to a battered pair of iron gates. He taps his horn three times in succession and a pair of men step out of a small tent. When they see him, they wave and unlock the gates.

  I look at the men as we drive past. It is only then that I notice their fused-together fingers, their missing lips. Nukeheads, employed as guards. I have never seen such a thing.

  Philip pulls to the side of the dirt road just inside the gates and turns to me. “This is it, madam. I can’t go no farther in the taxi. It’s all on foot from now on.”

  I reach for the door handle. “Thank you, Philip. I appreciate you taking me, in spite of the risks.” I take a deep breath and look out at the desert visage. The guards have retreated back into their tent. In the other direction, hills covered with large canvas tents dot the horizon like sand-colored sentinels. “I hope my sister’s here.”

  Philip’s face is grim. “Madam, kids who end up here…they are different. Sometimes they are never the same as before. You understand?”

  I don’t, not fully, but I nod nonetheless. “Be careful, Philip.” I step out and watch him drive away, puffs of dust clouds trailing after him.

  I walk down the road several dozen yards, my heart beating in anticipation and fear. As I approach the top of a sloping sand dune, my ears are battered by sounds, voices. There are varying pitches and tones, lilting accents, and wordless moaning. I stop for a moment to let my ears adjust to the cacophony before cresting the top of the hill.

  There are so many people.

  My first thought is that the sky has broken open and spilled them out. I couldn’t see past the sand dunes and hills to see all of them from the taxi. They’re spread out on the grass, on blankets, in tents, on tiny hills of sand. There are boys and girls, of every age, men and women from all over New Amana. There are thousands of them, broken, beaten, tossed aside and washed up here.

  As I look around, I wonder how I am ever to find my sister.

  I am exhausted; I want nothing but to lie down and sleep until I am half-dead. But I have to find Ceres. I ignore the fumbling fingers of mentally-handicapped children as they pull at my clothes. Heartbreakingly, some of them call me Mama, as if checking to see if their mothers have come for them after all.

  The first tent is set a few hundred yards from a sandy hi
ll. Inside, there is a woman in the corner in a white shirt and loose, billowing beige pants. She’s kneeling in front of a child of five or six. The child is blind and screaming for his mother.

  “Now, Jasper,” she says as she cups his cheek. “I know you’re hungry, but there’s nothing I can do. We’re out of rations for the time being. Would you like me to sing to you again?”

  Jasper quiets down at this offer, and the woman smiles, though he can’t see her. “There’s a good boy. How about the one with the clock?”

  She spots me then, and whispers something to Jasper before standing up to greet me. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m…” I swallow, feeling suddenly nervous. Who is this woman? Can I trust her? I look around. I’m being stupid. She’s here, with all these Défectueux. She’s on our side. “I’m Vika Cannon. I’m looking for my sister, Ceres. She is—or was—at the Asylum in Toronto for a long time, but someone told me a number of them escaped a couple of days ago.”

  The woman looks pointedly at my uniform and says nothing.

  I smooth my skirt down. “I was with the Rads in Ursa, but we got ambushed. I just need to find my sister—”And then, without any warning, I begin to cry. Not just a trail of tears on my cheek, but sobbing, gut-wrenching, heaving sobs.

  The woman’s face crumples and she gathers me into her arms, rubbing her hand in circles on my back as if to soothe a child.

  “It’s alright, Vika,” she says. “Here, why don’t you have a seat? You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

  I sit down and swipe my fists across my eyes. “I’m sorry. I think I must be tired.” I take a drink of water from the tin the woman at le marché noir gave me. “Do you know if Ceres is here? Ceres Cannon?”

  The woman smiles, her face kind but pitying. “Dear, there are so many children here, we’re not even sure how many exactly. They came only a few days ago, so everything’s still chaotic, I’m afraid. We have three caretakers, not including the guards. We do the best we can. I can point you in the direction the Toronto kids congregate—groups tend to stay with ones who seem familiar.”