Dry Souls

by Denise Getson

  “No.”

  I can’t resist making a face. J.D. laughs, giving my hand a squeeze, and we set out.

  “Where should we go?” I tighten the pack on my shoulders and pick up my step to keep pace with J.D. It occurs to me now that in all our weeks of preparation for this moment, we’d overlooked one important thing. Where do we go from here?

  “Northwest,” he says softly.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “It’s desolate for thousands of miles. Not a single Biosphere between here and the mountains.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too far interior. Most Biospheres have some proximity to shorelines, to desalinization plants or easy access to water pipelines. If I’m Thorne, I’m thinking there’s nothing in that direction to attract us and everything to discourage us. So his search may not be as thorough in that area.”

  “What if we stayed close to the lake? We could follow the shore north. We could keep an eye on things, you know? See what’s going on. See if there are Territory officials around. Or travelers. People are bound to show up once word gets out that the lake is full.”

  It’s dark, but I can feel the look he sends in my direction. “I think avoiding Territory officials should be one of our top priorities, Kira, not spying on them.”

  He’s right, and I know it. It’s just that I don’t want to leave the water. It brings freshness to the air, and the sight of it, even gray and choppy, fills me with a sense of calm. But J.D. is thinking logically.

  So we leave the lake and strike out cross-country.

  Our time spent getting into shape serves us well. We walk quickly, breathing easily as we skirt former thoroughfares in favor of off-the-beaten-track pathways. We use the dark to put distance between us and the city.

  When the sun begins to rise, we hide in an abandoned house, one of thousands of look-alike suburban dwellings with crumbling walls and cracked tile. Afraid to let our guard down, we take turns keeping watch. J.D. stretches out his bedroll to rest, while I get our bearings.

  The world outside the windows is quiet. There’s no hum of insects, no sign of life. There are no motors, no machines. Fervently, I pray that Thorne is out of commission and unable to rally a quick response to our escape. I don’t have a clear understanding of the resources at his disposal, but my imagination fills the air with choppers and searchlights and shouting men. I shudder, moving away from the window.

  Digging through my backpack, I pull out a map. I no longer have a GPS, so this will have to do. J.D was right. It shows Biospheres to the south and east of us, but thousands of miles of wasteland stretching to the north and west. My heart falls at the sight of the marked borders, the sheer size of the land between here and the ocean. Will we go that far? Is it even possible to survive a trek in that direction?

  Once again, we’ll be reduced to hunting insects and hoarding water. And now, more than ever, I’ll be unable to use my gift, unable to create any substantial body of water. Even the smallest puddle must be hidden from prying eyes.

  J.D. sighs and stirs in his sleep. Quietly, I kneel by his side, adjusting the thin blanket. I need to shake off my uneasiness. Heading toward Slag and the lake had given me a purpose. It kept me resolute, kept my feet moving forward. But, what’s my purpose now? Staying one step ahead of Thorne? There has to be more to my life than that.

  Thorne had said there were others, kids with abilities, not just like mine, but useful nevertheless. Maybe there was a way to find them, to go to the orphanages, to the homes for the mutant babies, to the Jane Does and John Does not yet known to Thorne. Maybe, just maybe, together J.D. and I can find a way to change things.

  I jerk suddenly as my body, heavy with exhaustion slips sideways, and I force myself upright. I am completely spent. Knowing it’s reckless to sleep, to not keep watch for a search party, I get up and take one more glance around the perimeter of the property. Nothing’s changed. Everything is quiet. I don’t want to wake J.D. I know he’s exhausted. We both are. Moving back to his side, I roll out my mat and sleep.

  Three hours later, I’m awake. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and turn to check on J.D. He snores gently, his mouth half open, one arm flung above his head. The casual disarray of his body brings a smile to my lips. I hate to disturb him, but it’s time. Shaking his shoulder gently, I wake him. We share a veggie bar and a handful of hemp nuts. Clearing a small place outside, I risk making water, just a small trench to allow us to fill our water bottles. I’m getting better at it, at judging my ability and using it to my advantage.

  Afterwards, J.D. fills the damp hole with dirt then covers the spot with old shingles and other debris found lying around the yard. Any residual dampness will dry quickly in this heat. Nevertheless, we don’t want to run the risk of it being found.

  After an uneventful night trekking through suburban ruins, we spend the following day in an abandoned grocery, surrounded by bare shelves and empty vending machines. It’s here that we encounter our searchers. I’m asleep when they arrive.

  “Kira, wake up!”

  Instantly, I’m alert. “Is it Thorne?”

  “I hear motors.”

  I hold my breath, straining to capture a sound. J.D.’s right. There’s something out there, a distant hum. Quickly, I roll up my mat and gather my pack. “Did you see anything?”

  “Whoever’s out there is too far away. I can’t tell if it’s choppers or rovers.”

  “Or something else entirely.”

  I study the area around us. The floor where my mat was lying looks too clean. I kick up some dust and knock over a wire stand. “That’s better.”

  J.D. takes my pack and we head to the back of the store, making sure to leave no footprints. There was a reason why we chose to rest here. It has an underground storeroom. And with careful positioning of an old vending machine, the entrance is completely hidden.

  Now J.D. inches the machine to the side, exposing a faded cellar door. I descend the stairs while he lingers at the top, using a bit of old rope to pull the machine back toward the wall.

  After a minute, I hear him stepping lightly down the stairs.

  “How long do you think we should stay down here?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. A day, maybe longer. We want to give whoever’s out there time to determine that we’re nowhere in the vicinity. It depends on how many are searching, but they’d need a day for sure, before they moved on to the next area.”

  I nod quietly, resisting the urge to peel off the cool-suit I’m wearing. I’m unused to the tight-fitting garment and it feels even more constricting in the close confines of the cellar.

  When J.D. and I were exploring the store, we’d come across crates of abandoned cool-suits. They were invented during the early days of the wars, to protect people’s skin from chemical exposure in case of attack. One side effect of the suits is that they also prevent surveillance equipment from getting a thermal reading off a live body. So wearing them might help shield us from detection. We’ve each donned a suit and packed a spare, just in case.

  The waiting is excruciating. After what feels like an eternity, we hear steps above our heads. Someone in heavy boots is methodically working his way around the interior of the store, checking out store aisles. Hearing the crash of metal shelving, I lock eyes with J.D. We don’t move. Indeed, we barely breathe.

  We hide in the cellar not one day, but four. It’s a good thing, for a second sweep of the town takes place two days after the first one. We have no way of knowing if it’s the same search team back-tracking or a second team moving behind the first one to create an element of surprise.

  For four days, we live on small morsels of food and sips of water from our bottles, trying to conserve. We sleep in fits and starts and when we do speak, it’s always in a whisper.

  Finally, we have no choice. We’re out of water. Hesitantly, weak from hunger and dehydration, we emerge from our hiding place. Our eyes squint at the dim light in the room. It’s close to sundown and after chec
king the area for signs of a patrol, I find a hidden place to make water. We drink and refill our bottles before hunting for our dinner. We’re in luck. We find a lizard and a handful of beetles.

  Refreshed, but light-headed from our days underground, we begin walking slowly, alert to our surroundings. A dry wind whistles between streets and tumbledown buildings. J.D. and I bring our steps into a smooth, synchronized rhythm that over time becomes automatic.

  Eventually, we leave behind the suburban wasteland for the wilderness. Traveling in the dark is treacherous in this pathless land, forcing us to constantly shift course. Occasionally, we cross an area where life still struggles. Harsh, twisted shrubs and scrubby brown trees dot the landscape. It’s not all dead. But the air is dry and thin and sullen.

  Days pass this way, in a weary, stumbling trudge. At the first hint of grey morning light, we hide ourselves in some dark place. The first few weeks we’re dramatically aware that we’re being hunted. At night, we often see the choppers before we hear them. They glide through the night, their motors muted. But the searchlights they carry are enormous, giant blazing beacons that sweep the land, exposing everything in their path. Fortunately, they’re easy to avoid.

  It’s harder to avoid the choppers without lights, the ones that sweep into view suddenly, without warning. We know whoever’s on board has night vision goggles, able to see distinct images in the darkness. We see one and freeze, like prey sensing danger, afraid to make any sudden movement that could alert them to our presence. Slowly, we ease ourselves to the ground and roll in the dirt toward some overhanging stone or a depression in the terrain to hide.

  Finally, the search peters out. The choppers become more infrequent. Have they moved on beyond us, anticipating us to be farther in our journey than we actually are? Or is there some new search tactic yet to come?

  One evening, heading west with robotic steps, we catch sight of an ancient town. Surrounded by darkness, the buildings glow with a soft blue florescence. It’s beautiful, a bright jewel in the night. But I shiver in dread, for I know it’s a dead city, toxic and radiating poison.

  We mark on our maps the day we finally cross into Alpha Territory. A forbidding mountain range looms in the distance. Remote and rocky, it appears uninhabitable. Nevertheless, we continue, making our way into foothills, then into the mountains, climbing up and down, then up again.

  Food is hard to come by and we make our meals as best we can, nibbling on brambles and roots and me making just enough water for the day ahead. I’m hungry, always hungry. Finally, staggering, I stumble to the ground. Reaching out blindly, I stuff a handful of dry dirt into my mouth. It is something, anything to take away the yawning emptiness inside.

  “Stop it!”

  J.D. grabs my hand and knocks the dirt from between my clinched fingers. He turns me toward him and gives me a shake.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, wiping grime from around my lips.

  I’m so weak, I can barely speak. “I’m hungry” I whisper, looking with longing at the ground. So much dirt. Or maybe not dirt. Maybe it’s gravy or gruel. I reach out my hand again, but J.D. yanks me up and gives me a hard push.

  “Ow!”

  “Move it. We’re setting up camp.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. And we’ll hunt.”

  “In the dark?”

  “We’ll use the flashlights. I think we’re isolated enough here, we’re not going to be seen.” He points toward black shapes in the distance. “See that pile of rocks? We’ll sleep there today.”

  Minutes later, armed with a small trowel I keep in my pack, I scrape at the hard, packed dirt, searching for anything that moves. I keep glancing at the air in front of my flashlight, hoping the light will attract flying insects. Sighing, I look around me. I need to eat. J.D and I both need something in our bellies.

  There’s a ridge ahead, and I grab my light and climb the narrow shelving to see if there are any edible bugs. Spying a dark split in the rock, I step through, surprised to suddenly find myself inside a cave. It’s dark and cool. Knowing the most delicious insects prefer cool, dark places, my mouth salivates. I hold my breath and listen for sounds of rustling.

  All is quiet. I kneel with my trowel to test the dirt. It’s soft and loose. I run my fingers through handfuls of the stuff, finding nothing. I stand, pocketing my tool. Maybe I’ll have better luck toward the back of the cave.

  It occurs to me that this cave might be a good place for J.D. and me to hide for a few days, to rest and recover our strength. We both need a break from the constant walking, the hunger and the tedium. Taking advantage of the cool interior, I decide to explore a bit more before showing J.D. what I’ve found.

  Casting my light cautiously before me, I walk deeper into the cave. It’s dark ahead. I’m used to dark, but this is absolute. And there’s no sound, only my muffled heartbeat, the faint thump of blood through veins. I shiver, caught by an uncertain feeling of being spun down a black hole.

  The thin beam of light cast along rocky surfaces reassures me that I’m completely alone and completely hidden. Resolutely, I push ahead. I lose track of the time but continue forward, brushing my hand against the rough wall to assure myself there are no side fissures. Finally—how long have I been walking?—there’s a break in the darkness ahead. So it isn’t a cave, but a tunnel. Curious, I step into a thin sliver of moonlight arcing through a slit in the rock—and freeze.

  I realize I’m still delusional from hunger, the kind of delusional that can turn dirt into dinner and who-knows-what into something impossible. A flash of pale pink is briefly illuminated as I swing my flashlight around, quickly clicking off the light and stuffing it back into my pack.

  I pause for a moment to catch my breath then inch my way back into the darkness, pressing the back of my hands against my cheeks and forehead to check for fever. I don’t feel hot. Silly Kira. There are probably odorless gases trapped in the cave, further fuddling my perception. I’m unable to hold back a weak laugh. Perhaps J.D. has found something we can eat. That would be a good thing. That would make me feel better.

  Picking up my pace, I hurry back the way I came, scraping and banging myself against the stone walls in the process. As soon as I’m clear of the entrance, I launch myself down the mountainside, eager to find J.D. and food.

  The stones beneath my feet are loose, and in my haste, I slip. It feels like I fall in slow motion. I have a moment of clarity when I scold myself for being so careless, before a sharp pain wipes away every thought. I tumble headlong over rocks and ground, gasping from a blow to my side. I try to grab hold of something, but there’s nothing to grab. My body picks up speed, continuing to slip and slide until I’m finally slammed into a rocky ledge. Everything becomes a blur, before blessed oblivion.

  When I regain consciousness, the sun is beating down upon my battered body and blistered face. Every movement is agony, but I’ve got to get back to the campsite. I am frying my skin out here in the open. And J.D. will be worried. He’ll think something’s happened to me.

  Well, it has, I remind myself.

  Carefully, I assess the damage, taking a physical inventory of my injuries. One ankle is swollen, and my right arm throbs. An injury to my ribs has me struggling to breathe. Using my good arm, I pull myself to a standing position, trying desperately not to black out as a wave of pain washes over me.

  Limping slowly, in an awkward half hop, I head—carefully this time—toward where I think the campsite is located. Several times, I stop to catch my breath and clear my vision. There’s a dull roaring in my ears and I nearly faint from the pain and the heat. At least, it’s taken my mind off the hunger.

  Hearing my name, I grab a nearby rock for support and gasp for air.

  “J.D!” I wheeze. “Over here.”

  I hear him racing across the rocks and would laugh with relief if it didn’t hurt so much. He darts around the boulder, sees me and grabs hold, squeezing tightly.

  I yelp.

&nbs
p; “Oh.” He springs back.

  “Gently,” I gasp, nearly done in by the pressure against my ribs. I catch a glimpse of his face. Are those tear tracks?

  “You’re a mess,” he says, clearing his throat. He gives a searching look up and down my body then takes my strong side, bracing me with one arm. “What happened?”

  “I slipped,” I tell him, feeling foolish. I don’t tell him about my lightheaded hallucination in the cave. Or that my hunt for food turned up nothing. I have been silly and careless, and I nearly got myself killed. That is embarrassment enough.

  Carefully, he rubs his hand over my shoulders and back checking for injuries. “I looked for you all over the mountain. Don’t do that again.”

  “I had no intention of doing it the first time.”

  With his help, I make it back to our camp where I drain every drop of water from both bottles. Sighing, I stretch out on the bedroll while J.D. digs out first-aid supplies from his pack. I apply aloe to my blisters and antibiotic cream to scrapes and cuts. Then J.D. wraps my ribs, biting his lip when I’m unable to hold back a gasp of pain. There’s just enough bandage left for my ankle, which he holds carefully, elevating it in his lap. Do his fingers tremble slightly as he winds the material around my foot and ankle? I could be mistaken. I’m tired, so tired.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Just bruised, I think. It’ll be okay.”

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Later,” I say weakly. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I want to not speak, to not even move, for about twenty-four hours.”

  He helps me get comfortable, shifting the bedroll with me on it into a protected area beneath the largest boulder where it’s shady. As he pulls back, I’m startled by a quick brush of lips across my cheek.