“Okay.” I try to calm myself. “This doesn’t mean a thing. So what if I can’t make water fill a cup? And why in the world would water appear on the bedroom floor? That’s ridiculous. It’s illogical. Clearly, I have to wish for water with a purpose, or I have to wish for water in its natural environment. That’s all.”
I’m not reassured.
I don’t give myself time to back out. I know myself well enough to understand that if I think about my plan for too long, I’ll find a way to talk myself out of it.
When the other girls come into the room, I feel their glances and ignore their soft whispers. I curl in bed, my eyes closed tightly. I’ve used the time alone to pack my backpack with the essentials: a small bedroll, a change of clothes and a hat, my nutritionals, a first aid kit, a flashlight and enough sun block to get me through, I think. My backpack will hold my entire life inside it. From this point on, I can’t let it out of my sight.
Hopefully, I don’t need to worry about water, but food’s a concern. Of course, bugs will be plentiful. Aside from algae, bugs make up our primary source of protein at the orphanage. Thinking of Cook’s famous stir-fry of white beetles with rock salt and sage, I salivate. Cook has a gift in the kitchen. Whether it’s grubs or crickets, she knows how to turn out a tasty meal. Feeling a pang in my stomach, I push the thought away. I can’t think of that now. I have to learn to rough it and eat my mealworms raw.
After the other girls are asleep, I tiptoe to the kitchen. Very gently, I pull a step ladder over to the wall. Climbing to the highest cabinet, I take a small hammer stolen from the tool box and break the lock on one of the doors. Inside is a lithium ion global positioning device, one of Matron’s most cherished possessions. I can’t resist a smile at the thought of her expression when she realizes it’s gone. I close the cabinet and return the step ladder to its proper place. Finally, I fill my backpack with trail mix and algae bars. I am quiet. It is dark. No one hears me leave.
I walk quickly, not looking back. This instant in time feels momentous, weighted with importance, and I know I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. I’m scared, trembling so hard it’s a wonder I can stand, but I force myself to take step after step. If I only take one step at a time, I can do this thing. As long as I don’t think too much about tomorrow or next week or the week after, I can make myself move forward. With conscious thought, I remind myself to breathe.
I’m afraid to be out in the dark. I’m afraid to be alone. But I’m more afraid to stop moving or to glance back, to lose the momentum of my outrageous idea. I’ll walk until I find a place to hide during the hottest part of the day. That’s when I’ll sleep.
There’s just enough moon to light my way, but with my vision diminished by darkness, my other senses reach out, searching around me. There are odors in the dark—thick and musky, but tinged with something bitter and metallic I can taste on my tongue.
My mother’s photo is in my pocket, and I press my hand against it for comfort. Delta Territory is far, but it’s where I’m determined to go, to make water and, maybe, to find answers.
Glancing at the illuminated GPS, I change direction slightly and continue heading north. At first, I notice everything: the air, the stars; the hum of generators when I pass some habitation. After awhile, however, I grow bored with my surroundings, the flat, dark plainness of it. I play mental games to keep myself awake and moving. I try to think of all the wet words in the English language, words that disappeared from use along with the water. You can still find the wet words in old books, words like drenched, saturated, soaking, soggy, sodden and swamped. Great, thick, rich words.
By midnight, my word games have ended, and I’m nearly in tears. My feet hurt. The muscles in my legs ache and pull with every step. If I had to get some crazy ability, why couldn’t it be the ability to fly? I wonder, briefly, if there’s someone, somewhere, who has that ability. If there is, I wonder if she’s stumbled upon her strange talent. Perhaps, mid-fall, she suddenly spread her arms and took flight. Or maybe she’ll never spread her arms and the ability will lie quiet, undiscovered, her entire life.
Suddenly, I stop. What if I can fly? What if there are other things I can wish for that I haven’t thought to try? What if my wish for water was just the first of three wishes, or six or ten? I think for a minute then hold out my hands, palms up. “I wish for food to fill my hands.”
Nothing happens.
Maybe I need to be more specific. “I wish for a handful of nuts,” I say loudly. “I wish for roasted hemp nuts.” I lift my hands into the air, ready to have them filled.
Nothing happens.
I drop my hands and glance up into the night sky.
“I wish it would rain.”
Nothing.
“I wish I could fly.”
I give a small hop into the air, arms outstretched, and when I land, my right calf cramps, sending a wave of pain shooting up my leg.
“Drat!” Feeling foolish, I massage my leg until the muscle relaxes. Evidently, I’ve got one wish that works. I guess that’s more than most. Taking a deep breath, I force myself forward. Soon, I can rest.
I eat a handful of trail mix just before morning, then sneak into a shed behind a wind farm to hide out. It’s too dangerous to be out in the sunlight mid-day. Boxes and tools line the wall of the shed, and I sneak into a crowded corner, drop my backpack onto the floor, and lay my head against the cool nylon. The wind turbines make a swishing noise I find soothing, and I sleep.
I spend day after day like this, walking north with the moonlight, then finding a place to hide before the sun comes out. Sore legs and swollen feet give way to firm calves and a steady heart. I’m the fittest that I’ve ever been in my life.
I’m also the loneliest.
When I emerge from my hiding place each evening, the sun is waning, shadows stretching across the salt pan until the heavy collapse of the night swallows me up and the land with it. I find beauty in the darkness and laugh at myself for it. I know I’m being sappy.
Early one evening, as I’m bypassing an abandoned town—a relic of empty buildings and crumbled concrete—I turn a corner and there’s a creek. The creek is black and covered in patches of orange toxic froth. The closer I come to the foamy fluid, the harder it is to breathe. I hold my nose as I pass, shivering at this noxious stuff that passes for water.
Anxious to get away from the fumes, I stride purposefully, my mind on the trek ahead of me; my eyes, evidently, elsewhere. I trip, falling forward over an obstacle in my path, and hold out my hands to catch myself. “Oof…oww!”
“What the…!”
“Hey!”
“Get off!”
I roll sideways, stunned by the appearance of a boy.
“Why don’tcha watch where you’re going?” he snaps.
“What were you doing? Sleeping in the middle of the path?”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, grumpily. “And this isn’t a path.”
My eyes follow the cleared space into the distance. “It is a path.” I pause, frowning at the untidy person before me. “What are you doing?”
“Studyin’ something.”
He stretches back out on the ground, pulling his head and shoulders onto the path again—it is a path—and I can’t help but admire the look of him. He’s attractive in a lanky, loose-jointed sort of way. He has sandy brown hair, and I notice immediately his striking eyes, not the washed-out blue of the sky, but a blue that’s bright and penetrating.
I’m not imagining things. It’s a boy. And not like the weathered travelers who would appear at the orphanage hoping for a handout, but someone my own age. The last time I saw a boy my age was when the Garner Home invited the nearest boys’ home to attend a day-long training session on the vegetation drought response index.
I crouch down to see what he’s doing and wince, suddenly aware that my palms are scraped and bleeding. Toxic soil in an open wound can be deadly. Thank goodness I received a tetanus shot last year. And, I’ve got antisepti
c in my pack. Gingerly this time, I inch toward the ground, my eyes following his to…what?
“What is it?” I whisper.
“It’s a toad, you idiot.”
I don’t see why he has to be snippy. I can see it’s a toad, but like no toad I’ve ever encountered before. It’s a mature deviant.
The creature in question is hopping, sort of, but is unable to travel in a straight line. It moves sideways, topples over, rights itself, then hops sideways again, and falls.
The toad has five legs and two of the legs jut out the side of his body, not beneath, like the others. It’s impossible for him to hop properly.
The deviants are the plants and animals—often babies—that have been twisted by toxins in the air and soil and water, and in the microscopic cells of mothers everywhere. From birth, they’re penalized. Most die early. A few survive.
“What should we do?” I ask, looking to this boy for an answer. “Should we put it out of its misery?”
“Maybe we should put you out of your misery,” he responds hotly.
I sit back on my heels, caught off guard by his hostility. What does he mean? Is he implying…? But how could he…?
Abruptly, he stands. “What’d this toad ever do to you?” Picking up the unbalanced creature, he moves it carefully into an area thick with dead, tangled vines. I watch him carefully, trying to decide what to do. I don’t know much about boys, and I’m curious to see what he’ll do next. He seems harmless enough. Once he’s satisfied the toad is in a protected spot, he turns back.
“My name’s Kira,” I say, sticking out my hand. I want to be nice. This boy’s prickly, but he’s the first person my age I’ve seen in a long time. Suddenly, I snatch my hand back, realizing that in order to shake it, he must touch it with the hand that only seconds earlier held the toad.
He looks at me with a disdain that makes me feel small inside.
“It’s not contagious,” he says, his voice soft.
I flush angrily. “I know that.”
A silent pause stretches between us. Our gazes are assessing, cautious.
“I’m J.D.,” he says finally. He reaches behind a pile of rocks and pulls out a backpack. “You can walk with me a ways if you want.”
“Um…okay.”
Silently, I fall into place beside him, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I like the way he moves, easily, slender hips pulling the rest of him forward.
“Where’re you headed?” he asks.
“Delta Territory.”
His eyes widen, darting to mine. “The Dead Lakes Region?”
“To Slag.”
He stumbles, catching himself before he hits the ground. “Why in the world would you go there? It’s nothing but a ghost town.”
I shrug. Everyone knows Slag’s uninhabitable. Of course, it wasn’t always a desolate place, and it wasn’t always called Slag. Once upon a time, the city had a lovely name and houses with kids playing in front yards. Years of industrial development along the shores of the Lakes Region eventually gave way to a completely toxic environment. Then the city was hit hard by the Devastation, chemical and biological warfare that spread across continents and still created casualties years after the surrender, as chemicals and enzymes mixed with other substances and evolved into something unforeseen.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I go where the wind takes me,” he says, lifting one bony shoulder.
I lick my finger and stick it high into the air, testing. “What wind?”
He scowls.
“Just kidding,” I say quickly. I don’t know this boy well enough to make jokes at his expense. He’s the first person I’ve had to talk with in days. The last thing I want is to offend him.
“Do you have family?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Me neither.” I fiddle with the strap of my backpack. “What does ‘J.D.’ stand for?”
“Just Deserts,” he says shortly. “As in ‘some day, I will get my just deserts.’”
I stare at him blankly. His expression gives nothing away.
“I don’t believe you,” I say finally. “Besides, are you so sure that getting your just desserts will be a good thing?”
He doesn’t answer and we walk for a moment in silence.
“So how long have you been traveling?” I ask.
He shoots me a glance, but doesn’t slow down. “I don’t really like chit chat.”
“Oh. Yeah. Me neither.”
For a while, I hum softly under my breath. I’m feeling delighted with myself, to have found someone to keep me company, even for a little while. “I’ve got trail mix in my pack, and algae bars—if you get hungry later, I mean.”
I don’t tell him I’ve learned to steal, raiding the larders of lonely outposts or sneaking into empty kitchens after dark. I figure if he’s been out walking very long, he’s developed his own nimble fingers. At least I try to repay my burglaries by leaving behind a small pond or a suddenly full gully.
J.D. eyes me, then my backpack, his expression a little too uninterested to be believed. “Sure.”
I smile and forge ahead. I’m halfway there.
I don’t know what J.D. had in mind when he said I could travel with him “a ways,” but a week later, we’re still walking. And he’s still a stranger to me. His demeanor doesn’t invite questions, and he tends to ignore the ones I do ask. On the other hand, he hasn’t asked me to get lost either.
He carries a water filter in his backpack and uses it to filter the brackish water of private algae ponds. First, he tests the ponds, pulling up a small sample in order to measure microcystin levels. Even with testing and use of the filter, which is supposed to screen out over ten different types of water-borne diseases, sometimes he gets sick, shaking with nausea and fever. He says he used to have tablets, micocystin antibodies and mixing powders that would clump together the pollution and parasites for easier filtering, but he’s run out.
Once, when there’s no algae pond available, I watch him fill both our bottles with murky water from a standpipe. Then he places the filled bottles on a piece of metal in full sunlight. By the time we wake up, seven hours later, UVA radiation has killed any viruses, bacteria and parasites in the water, making it safe to drink.
His methods are uncertain and time-consuming and I especially don’t like it when he’s sick, so I develop the habit of “discovering” water once we’ve halted in the morning or at twilight when we’re ready to set out for the next stage of our trek. Usually, once we find a shelter to hide out during the day, I make it my job to scout the surroundings. I can almost always find a small depression to fill and, while the water level’s rising, I scrounge around for edible insects.
It’s J.D.’s job to set up camp and start a small fire, if it seems safe. When I show up with water, I tell him it’s from an abandoned well or an industrial tank. He always tests the water first, before taking a sip. He’s very careful. The water I make is good, and he doesn’t get sick from drinking it.
Early one evening I’m feeling pretty proud of my successful subterfuge when he catches me in the act. I glance across the small ditch I’ve just filled to see him standing at the edge of the clearing, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“How’d you do that?”
I watch him cautiously. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the water, like he’s afraid it will disappear if he blinks.
“I don’t know.”
He turns his gaze to me. “Do it again.”
I stand, dusting off my jeans. Realizing my expression might give me away, I turn my face. “It’s not a party trick,” I say shortly. I’m scared. It’s not like J.D. is great company, but he’s some company and, for a few days, it was nice not to be alone. I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel lonely, whether I was truly alone or not. But I don’t feel alone when I’m with J.D. Only, now he’s sure to leave. And I’ll go back to walking alone, talking to myself and being alone in the dark. I cap my water bottle and head
toward the campsite.
“I wondered why you never seemed concerned with conserving water,” he says slowly, jogging to keep up. “I remember thinking you were like one of those camels I’ve read about, hiding a couple of humps somewhere.”
I say nothing. What is there to say? At least a camel would be something natural, something along the normal order of things.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you? You have this thing, this—well, it’s amazing when you think about it,” he says. I keep walking, daunted by the words pouring out of his mouth. He hasn’t said this much in an entire week. “You should be doing something with this, you know. You should be conjuring water for a living. I bet you’d get paid loads for a thing like this. You waltz into a place, fill up the local reservoir, pick up a stash of credits and live like a king…I mean, queen.”
I bend over to refold my bedroll, then turn to tie it to my pack. J.D. grabs my shoulder and when I feel his touch, it’s too much. I spin around, slapping his hand away.
“Back off!” My hands are clenched so tightly the knuckles form a white ridge that mirrors our horizon. “Do you think I don’t know all that? Sure, it’d be nice to help people. I want to eat a real meal and sleep in a real bed. But, I don’t know why I have this ability. I don’t know where it comes from or what it means. I’m a freak, J.D., just like that five-legged frog of yours.”
“Toad.”
“Whatever.” I take a bitter breath and let it out. “I don’t want to be turned into some sideshow attraction. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. And I especially don’t want anyone telling me what to do!”
Instantly, his face shuts down. I push away my sudden feeling of remorse. Geez Louise. Part of me wants to recall my words and stuff them back into my mouth, but it’s too late. And I won’t let him see me being weak.
“Fine,” he says shortly. He turns to pack up his stuff. “Hey, it’s your thing. You can do whatever you want with it or nothing at all. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“Teeth.”
“What?”
Dry Souls Page 3
