Among These Bones

by Amanda Luzzader

  I swung the bike around and came up alongside her at a distance, pedaling slowly. She was breathing hard.

  “Hey,” she yelled. “You. Get over here.”

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked.

  “That’s nonaya business,” she said. “But I need that favor.”

  “Why?” I coasted closer to her. “What’s going on?”

  We came to an intersection and Ruby slowed so that she could glance over her shoulder. I looked in that direction but saw nothing.

  “Someone after you?”

  “I gave ’em the slip back at the depot, but they’ll be along soon enough.”

  “Goons.”

  She nodded with her sly grin.

  “What do they want?”

  “I think they found out I carry this piece,” she said, patting her hip. “Been after me a couple days. I need you to take it.”

  “What? Your gun? No. Just get rid of it.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Not a chance.”

  “What’ll they do if they catch you with it?”

  “Well,” she said, “they ain’t gonna take me dancing.”

  “Then ditch it,” I said. “Hide it somewhere for a while.”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Can’t risk it. It’ll get found or I’ll forget where I stuck it. And it’ll get rusted. You don’t know what it took to get it, and now I’m not going to lose it. You’re going to take it for me, and I’m gonna get it back from you.”

  We looked down the street again. Four or five blocks back, I thought I saw something moving among the hulks of the derelict cars.

  “That’s them,” said Ruby.

  She squatted between the weed stalks. I got off my bike and laid it down. Then I crouched in the road with her.

  “They haven’t seen you, don’t know ya. You got to get going now,” she said. She wetted her lips and dug around under the flap of her coat and produced the pistol.

  It was worn and pitted with age. The handle grips were held on with friction tape. She held it in both hands, turned it over.

  “Here then,” she said, holding it out. “Take it.”

  “No way!”

  “Listen, Missy,” she said, poking her stumpy finger at my face. “I saved your life. You owe me one. You take this gun and go on home.”

  “What if they stop me?”

  “They don’t know you, and it ain’t you they’re looking for. Now take it.”

  She passed it to me and I took it. It was heavier than I thought it would be. She fumbled under her coat again and came out with a small bundle of greasy cloth.

  “Bullets. Take ’em.”

  They clattered like marbles in the cloth.

  “If you double-cross me,” said Ruby holding up the stumpy index finger, “you’ll be sorry.”

  I started to answer, but couldn’t.

  “Where do you live?”

  I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was this woman knowing where I lived.

  “Damn it, where d’ya live?”

  I told her.

  “I know that street. Go straight home,” she ordered. Then she knitted her brows as though she might reconsider. “Get going. If I’m not there before dark, just hide it. I’ll deal with these knuckleheads. Don’t let ’em see you.”

  I walked my bike away from the intersection, staying low and watching down the street. When I thought I’d gone far enough, I got on the bike and rode.

  The street was lined with volunteer elm trees growing up twisted and unpruned. On the tips of the leaves the blush of autumn was spreading. Between the trees there sprouted small jungles of unkempt ornamental shrubs and weeds gone to seed. Soon the warm colors of fall would displace the last of the greenery, and then the leaves would be gone. It wouldn’t be much longer after that and our memories would be gone, too.

  Out on the street there was a man in a filthy and ragged ski parka skulking through the deepening shadows. Probably just another wanderer or maybe even someone like me on the way home, but you could never be too safe. Ordinarily, if I were alone, I’d dive for cover and stay quiet at the sight of somebody like that, but I thought of the cool metal weapon pressed against my tummy at the top of my jeans, and I wondered if it could protect me. I put my hand on the grip and watched the man pass by. He didn’t seem to notice me. It occurred to me that I wasn’t even exactly sure how to shoot the gun, and if I tried to pull it out, it might go off in my pants. And I knew I could be hauled off by the goons for merely having it on my person. Hauled off and never seen again, and Arie might never even be told what happened. I felt like I could barely breathe.

  I’d been home for over an hour, pacing, before Ruby showed up. I saw her from the window and went out to meet her. Her right eyelid looked like plum.

  “Jesus, Ruby,” I said. “What’d they do?”

  “Let’s have that piece,” she said.

  “Yes, please take it.” I reached under my shirt.

  “Not out here, you dummy. Go inside.”

  I stood there for a second.

  “You want the whole neighborhood to know?” she asked. “People watch. They see. They talk.”

  We stepped inside and Ruby shut the door.

  I pulled on the handle and Ruby grabbed the gun away almost before the barrel cleared the waist of my pants. In another second she’d hidden it under the great flaps of her coat.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she scoffed, “they shook me down. You know how they are. Puny men with badges. They were plenty disappointed I didn’t have nothing on me. Said I musta hid it somewhere. So, they give me this shiner.”

  She fished her eyeglasses from a pocket and wiped the hazy lenses with the tail of her shirt, which didn’t clear them up at all. Then she nodded to me.

  “How’d they find out about your gun?”

  “Oh, probably someone narc’ed on me. I got enemies. And them goons don’t like me much to begin with, neither.”

  “I saw them use a stun gun on a guy across the street a couple months ago,” I told her.

  Ruby scoffed. “They do a lot worse than that.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  She grinned, shook her head. “You don’t wanna know, but I’m sure you can guess.”

  That was true.

  “Watcha got to drink?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer, just waddled through the house headed toward the kitchen, not seeming to care whether I was coming.

  “Nice place,” said Ruby.

  I scurried behind her, wondering what Arie would think of this stranger flooding into the house.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “What? I need a drink,” she said.

  “What can I get you? Something for your eye?”

  “What, for this?” she said, pointing to her eye. “Nah, he hit like a fifth-grader. I’ve had worse.”

  I believed it. “How about some water?” I asked.

  She found the kitchen. “Yeah, all right. Unless you got something stronger.”

  “Stronger? No. Where would I get something like that?”

  “Oh, it looks like you do just fine,” she said, eyeing the shelves and cupboards.

  For a woman with a limp, she was remarkably quick, moving through the kitchen and pulling out the drawers as though conducting an inspection. She opened a cupboard, pulled a packet of crackers part way out, then shoved it back. I couldn’t decide if she was being rude or if it was her way of saying we were friends now, so I kept quiet.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Just fine.”

  “The cups are there by the sink,” I said.

  Ruby grabbed a cup and I dispensed some water from our plastic water can. She continued her inspection.

  “Interesting,” she said, pointing at the police scanners stacked on the fridge. She inclined her head to peep up at them through her bifocals.

  “Yeah. Don’t know why those are there.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, moving o
n.

  She found the shelf where I kept some of the things I’d collected from the abandoned houses—a silver-plated jewelry caddy in the shape of a cat, a pair of dentures, a paper fan—tchotchkes that had caught my eye. They weren’t particularly useful or worth anything in trade, but I held my breath for a few seconds, hoping she wouldn’t ask about them. She bent down and lifted her eyeglasses to see them closer.

  “Pretty,” she said, lifting the flowered tea cup I’d found the day the dogs attacked us.

  “Are you finished?” I asked, reaching for her cup.

  “No, not quite yet.” She sipped at the water and turned away to keep me from taking it from her.

  Arie had left a stack of magazines on the counter. Ruby fanned them out to see their covers, then plucked one from the pile. She held it at arm’s length, tilted her head to read it.

  Thankfully, Arie wasn’t home. I was displeased with the way she so boldly rifled our things, but Arie would surely have lost his temper.

  She shuffled around the table and headed for the den, with its quagmire of cables, adapters, and monitors. The shelves of books. The radio. I rushed around her to block the entrance.

  “Whatcha got back there?” she asked, smiling.

  “Nothing,” I told her. “There’s nothing back there.”

  Ruby knew the rules. Everybody did. It was the first thing they told you. Before you knew your name, before you knew what had happened, they told you the rules. Before we took our first steps into the murky dawn of our new and dismal lives, we’d already been told the rules three times. Obey Agency personnel. Be in by curfew. No stealing, no looting, no weapons. There were lots of rules in a book they’d given us, but they could also arrest you simply on suspicion of breaking the rules, or even suspicion of intending to break the rules. They could arrest you because they didn’t like your face.

  There was no way to prove that Arie’s collection of documents and gadgets was illegal, or that we’d looted much of it from homes outside Zone boundaries. Gosford had seen the stash, watched it grow. He told me that some other Agency supervisor might find it all rather suspect, but I knew he wanted me to like him, and so he said nothing about it.

  And now Ruby stood on tiptoe, looking over my shoulder into the den.

  “Really, what is all that? Them computers and what not.”

  “I told you. It’s nothing. Just things.”

  Ruby chuckled and handed me her cup. “Guess I’ll be going, then, show myself out.”

  I stayed at the doorway to the den, watching as she walked back through the kitchen and into the living room, where she stopped abruptly and lowered her head.

  I could see only her profile, and I stared at her, waiting for her to go out the door, wishing for her to leave, but then I noticed that her lips were moving. Like she was whispering to herself or praying. But no—she was reading.

  When I followed her gaze, I saw it: my own journal, sitting out and open on the side table.

  I scurried over, banging my hip on the counter and nearly tripping. Ruby heard me coming and leaned closer to the pages. I snatched up the journal and held it to my chest.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “That’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s mine. And it’s private.”

  Ruby lumbered over to our sofa and plopped into it.

  “You know what, Alison,” she said, rubbing her knee, “I’m angry. You think it’s bad losing thirty or so years? Imagine losing twice that. A lifetime. And not only that. We lost the one advantage us old people had—our wisdom. I can’t sleep through the night without getting up to pee three or four times. I’m slow as hell. And now, on toppa alla that, thanks to that serum, I’m dumber’n a teenager. Don’t get old, Alison. It’s the pits.”

  “It’s bad for everyone. We’re all at the same place,” I said.

  “What if I told you we aren’t?” she sat up straight and spoke a bit quieter.

  I crossed the room to be closer.

  “The Agency knows a lot more’n they’re telling us,” Ruby said. “Shit, everyone knows, right? You know, don’tcha? Or at least suspect? I think everyone does. I think everyone suspects, but they’re too busy tryna live and too scared to say anything.”

  “What do you mean?” I wanted her gone, but there was something about her, something that was subversive and hopeful at the same time.

  “That journal’s a good idea, you know.” She jabbed her chin at my notebook. “Written in your own handwriting. You write everything down?”

  “Try to.”

  She nodded slyly. “I oughtta have my people doin’ that.”

  “Your people?”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Listen. I got a place, Alison,” she said, scooting forward on the couch. “I got a place on the outside. I’ve gathered up a few ‘things,’ too, and I’m making some plans. Folks like you and me—we don’t like this bein’ kept in the dark. I know you feel it. That’s why you got them radios and whatnot. We’re tired a’being sheeple, and we’re hungry for light. You’re smart. I could use your help. And I could help you, too. With lots of things. Food. Supplies. Get ya something decent to drink, for one. And more, maybe.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “I’ll just say they’re the kind ’a plans worth keeping secret, but ones I plan on remembering.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “It’s hard to start a revolution when ya still salute the king.” Ruby laughed.

  “Is it safe?”

  Ruby sighed. “No. It ain’t. There’s risks. But doing nothing is a risk, too. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m not on my own. I have a son—he depends on me. I can’t put him at risk. Don’t tell me anything else.” I stepped back. “I don’t want to know.”

  Ruby looked at me for a while, shrugged, and said, “Suit yourself.” Then she rocked a few times to raise up from the couch. “But if you ever change your mind, come out to the Harbor.”

  “Harbor?”

  “That amusement park out by where we met them dogs that day. You know. Out where that rolly coaster and Ferris wheel is at. I’m there most days. Come on out if you change your mind.”

  I nodded—once. Then I went to the front door and opened it. Ruby stepped out onto the porch and then turned.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Don’t be putting none of this in your diary. Don’t put me in there. For my sake.”

  I nodded, and she started down the street. I was still watching her from the window when Arie rode up on his bicycle.

  He paused and watched her go on down the block. Then he came up the stairs and opened the door.

  “Hey,” he said pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “wasn’t that what’s-her-name?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Then who—”

  “It was no one.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Two weeks later, all I wanted to do was go back. Rewind. The word repeated in my mind like a plea or a prayer. Rewind, rewind. To change the outcome, maybe, but mostly to be in those last moments again—days that had seemed so dreary and ordinary, but moments which now had become sacred. How I longed to live them over again. It wasn’t possible, I knew, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it. Rewind, rewind. It’s all I thought about.

  It started one morning as I passed Arie on the staircase. I was coming downstairs and he was heading up, his arms so full with stacked-up notebooks and magazines he had to hold them in place with his chin.

  “What’s all this?” I smiled, stopping a few stairs above him.

  “New indexing system. I’m re-doing everything.”

  “Sounds like a big job,” I said.

  “Huge. You’re going to love it.” He continued past me and up the stairs. “And don’t worry about lunch. I’ll grab a bite later.”

  I didn’t see him at all that day. I fetched water and firewood without him. I ate lunch alone. I worked around
the house. When it was time for supper, I called up the stairs for him.

  “I’m busy,” he yelled down. “Can’t stop now.”

  A couple hours later, Arie’s door was shut when I took him a bowl of the soup I’d made. I knocked. No answer.

  “Arie? Got some soup for you.”

  I knocked again. Nothing. I opened the door.

  Arie sat cross-legged on the floor, three or four books open on his lap. A chaotic fortress of books and maps and photo albums stood around him. There was almost no place to walk or stand. Atop the stacks were candles whose lights leaned and flickered as I swung the door open. Shadows loomed and capered on the walls.

  Arie was hunched forward, head down. His long bangs veiled his eyes. A pen was tucked behind one ear. He scanned the pages, jotting notes in a notebook every few moments.

  “Arie.”

  He flipped a page but didn’t look up.

  “Arie,” I repeated, louder.

  He finally heard me and glanced up. “Oh. Hi. What’s the matter?”

  His face was pale and drawn, eyes glassy.

  “I brought you something.” I offered him the bowl. “You need to eat.”

  “Thanks.” His eyes dropped back to the notebook. “Just put it over there. I’ve got some crackers and the last of the peanut butter.”

  I squeezed past the journals and files and set the bowl on the dresser. Cracker crumbs were spread across the blanket, and the little jar of peanut butter was half empty.

  “Look at you,” I said, taking a seat on a small empty spot on the bed. “You need a break. You can’t keep working like this.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m almost finished for the day.” His words sounded slurred.

  I sat with him a few more minutes, trying to put my finger on what might be wrong with him, but I couldn’t, and he didn’t seem to notice me. He opened the books and magazines, jotting notes in the notebook. Finally, I got up and went to the door.

  “Well, night, son,” I said.