by Jo Treggiari
They stood quietly as the rain poured down, washing the dust from the road. The frown was back on Aidan’s face, but he didn’t talk. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand. Lucy saw that the skin was broken and bleeding, and the flesh over the bones looked swollen. His cheek was red and bruised. The viciousness of the attack had been shocking. Now that it was over, she felt a weariness that threatened to submerge her. If she’d been able to, she’d have crawled into her sleeping bag, drawn her jacket over her head, and slept for two weeks. The pain of losing the safety and comfort of her home squeezed her heart.
Aidan looked past her. His arm went to hers, cradling her elbow, and he turned her to face the bald man striding toward them. He was huge. Tall, and as broad as a brick wall.
“Lucy, this is Leo.” Leo nodded but did not smile. His shirt was damp with sweat, and beads of moisture flecked his scalp and upper lip. He wiped a ham-like hand on his cargo pants and then held it out, pumping her own in a bone-crushing grip. His blue eyes studied her with an intensity that made her nervous.
“Leo just needs to check you out,” Aidan said, giving her a little pat and then a push on the back.
“Wha-a-t?”
Simultaneously Leo’s hand gripped her forearm and she was directed toward one of the larger army green tents. There was no question of breaking loose. His hold was bruising. She tried to grab her knife, but it was out of reach. She threw a panicked look at Aidan over her shoulder. He nodded at her reassuringly, but his eyebrows were bunched and his expression was worried.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EXAMINATION
Inside, the tent was dark and smelled of mildew. A bench heaped with clothing stood in the middle of the packed dirt floor along with a table, two chairs, and some milk crates stuffed with wads of material. A few sheets hung from rings on the ceiling, making a small enclosure. A large bucket of water rested nearby. A hurricane lamp smoked gently and gave off a pungent odor.
And by the wall—her heart started beating quickly—stood a wheeled hospital gurney, like the ones her parents had died on.
Leo had finally let go of her arm. She stood rubbing it, eyeing the doorway flap and his bulk in front of it. She wondered if she could squeeze through the tiny gap under the tent where it was pinned to the earth with stakes, tried to decide if he was as slow as his height and weight suggested. But then she remembered the grace with which he had fought and resigned herself miserably to being his prisoner.
“You can put your backpack down and take a seat,” he said, motioning toward the chair. His voice was brisk, impersonal. It gave away nothing.
He busied himself at the small table. There were small glass bottles and a few odd-looking metal implements on a steel tray, which he pushed to one side.
Lucy remained standing, balanced on the balls of her feet so she could run if she had to. Her hand went to the knife. She wasn’t sure what to think. She tried to read him. It didn’t seem as if he was about to attack her, but her nerves were zinging anyway.
What was she in for? Torture? Execution? And the more nagging thought: Why had she ever trusted Aidan?
Leo now turned to the heap of clothes and rummaged through them with his broad back to her. It was such a target.
She half drew the knife and prepared to pounce. If she could get the knife to his neck, she could make him let her go.
His words distracted her.
“Henry’s not here, but I’ve learned enough from him not to cause you too much discomfort. Let’s see, might as well get this sorted. A medium should do, I think.”
Henry? Medium what?
He swiveled suddenly, as coordinated as the cougar she’d seen at the lake, and tossed something at her. She almost dropped the knife in her attempt to catch the soft bundle.
His eyes widened as he caught sight of the blade. And then a grin spread across his ruddy face.
“It’s not what you think.”
She held up two pieces of clothing. Worn, black faded to gray—a pair of loose drawstring pants and a baggy thermal shirt.
“For you to change into. After.”
He nodded at the tarps hanging behind her. “There’s a makeshift shower in there. Water’s cold, I’m afraid. No disrespect, but I’m thinking it’s been a while.” Her cheeks flamed. Then he pointed to a box spilling more clothes on the floor. “Underwear and so on in there.” And now she could have sworn he blushed, but the light was pretty poor. “They’re secondhand, but clean.”
He took a step toward her, his fingers spread out in a non-threatening pose.
She held her ground. “What do you want?”
“Can you put the knife down, Lucy?” He had stopped moving toward her, and his voice was gentle. She felt tears pricking at her eyelids. He sounded like her dad. The same burr in his voice.
She got a grip on her emotions and did not lower the knife.
He picked up something small and metallic from the table and flicked a switch. A small dot of light came on. She recognized the scope doctors used. Like the one they’d used on Rob when he was four and stuck orange pips up his nose.
He showed it to her, moving slowly, as if she were a little kid. The circle of light bobbed around.
“I need to ask you to trust me. Just for a little while.”
She thought about her choices. Surprise! She didn’t really have any. Seemed like that was the way it was recently.
She scowled and nodded.
“I’ll trust you, too,” he said, his eyes on her weapon. “I just need to look in your mouth and ears. Check your glands for swelling, your fingernails for blackening.”
With the worst cases of the plague, bleeding started under the skin, a darkness spreading like crude oil on water, and a high fever boiled the blood. In the first few months she’d been obsessive about checking every bruise, every lump, but she was a klutz, and she always had some cuts or contusions sprinkled across her legs and arms.
He shone the light in her eyes and grunted. “Your eyes are clear.”
“Are you afraid I’ll infect you?” she asked sarcastically.
“Frankly, right now I’m more worried about your blade.” He shifted around so he could peer into her ears. She hoped they were moderately clean.
He checked her fingernails, pressing along the edges. He turned her palm over. The knife cut on it still oozed, and the edges were raw.
“Nasty,” he said. “There’s a salve here somewhere.” He placed her hand palm up on her knee and rummaged through the clutter on the table, emerging with a flat tin and a rectangular piece of material. He opened the box, revealing a paste which resembled brown Vaseline. It had a pungent smell like oregano.
“Goldenseal, echinacea, and comfrey,” he said, as though that meant anything to her. “Grammalie makes it.”
He smeared some over the wound, wrapped it tightly in a cloth bandage, and used some thin strips of cloth to bind it in place. The edges of the wound stung briefly and then stopped. She clenched her fist experimentally. The pain was numbed.
“Here.” He handed her a surgical glove. “To keep your hand dry.”
She was oddly reluctant to take it. The Sweepers wore gloves like that. She was reminded of a question she’d wanted to ask. “Do they always send dogs?”
He considered. “Lately.” He squared his shoulders and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lately it seems like they’re looking for something in particular.”
She couldn’t control the shiver that snaked up her spine.
“How can you live like this, not knowing if they’re going to come back?”
“We try to prepare as best we can. Look out for one another.” He glanced at her with narrowed eyes. “You were living alone? Out in the Wilds?”
She nodded.
“Easier, I bet. But lonely, maybe?”
She shrugged, feeling the sudden prickle of tears. She rubbed vigorously at her nose.
“People just naturally cluster together, you know. Everyone’s got a version of the same story.” He
cocked an eyebrow at her. “Probably for the first time ever, we have an understanding, a compassion for one another, you know? Everyone has lost someone.”
She said nothing, though a part of her wanted to. Alone, she could squash down all the emotions. He was making it hard.
“Say ahhh.”
She wondered how bad her breath smelled.
He put the scope down and reached behind him. When he turned around again, he held a thermometer. “Open again.”
She opened her mouth and he placed it beneath her tongue. The thermometer was uncomfortable in her mouth. She moved her tongue. He frowned slightly and repositioned it. “Hold still for two minutes.” She exhaled through her nose.
“Family maybe means something else these days,” he said. “It’s not about blood ties anymore.”
She grunted and shifted on the chair. She ducked her head so she didn’t have to meet his eyes.
After a seemingly endless time he said “Open” again and removed the thermometer. He shook it a couple of times and squinted at it, trying to read the numbers.
“People are scared. They fear that the disease is just dormant, that it might mutate again, resurge. We have to face the possibilities,” he continued, holding the thermometer toward the light. “Normal.” He placed the thermometer back on the table and faced her. “Good.”
Lucy ran her dry tongue across her lips. The thought that the plague could appear again was terrifying.
“I could have told you that. I’m not sick.”
“It’s hard to tell. By the time the bleeding and fever appear, it’s usually too late. And contagion usually occurs before the symptoms show themselves. We’re barely hanging on here. We can’t let you into the camp if there’s even the smallest chance that you could bring infection.”
“Aidan’s the first person I’ve seen in six months. None of this is necessary.” She stared at him, her chin thrust out. He looked amused. “I don’t know if I’m staying past tonight,” she said.
“Even so. We’ll have to dispose of the clothes you’re wearing, too. We ran out of bleach a month ago, and none of the herbal concoctions do the job.”
She remembered her mother burning their family blankets and pillows on the pyres.
“You can’t take my leather jacket. Or my boots! I’ll leave.” She pulled her jacket around her. She’d had the boots so long that, ripped and shredded as they were, they felt like old friends.
He shot them a glance, then looked at her stony face. “You can keep them. It’s the plant fibers that hold the disease. Let’s finish up.” He moved slowly, holding his hands out where she could see them.
Then he pressed his thumbs in under her jawline and behind her ears. His hands were quick and firm. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how her father had smoothed her hair away from her face or tweaked her nose when she was little and didn’t want to take her fish oil gel tabs. “Anything hurt?”
She shook her head impatiently. He exhaled and wiped his sweating forehead. She wondered if he was more nervous than he admitted.
“Henry will ask you some questions when he gets back. He’s out on hunt detail right now.”
“Hunting animals?” Lucy asked.
He shot her an amused glance. “What else would it be?”
She shrugged. “Who’s Henry?”
“He’s our resident medical expert.” He sat back on the stool, spreading his large hands on his knees and leaning so that only one chair leg still touched the floor.
Lucy suffered another twinge. Her dad used to sit like that at his desk. Even though her mom always complained that it scuffed the floor.
“Any more clothing in your bag?” he asked.
She nodded, unlaced the opening, and pulled out the sodden mass of her clothes. Her nose wrinkled. They smelled of mold and ancient sweat and the iron tang of blood from her wounded hand. She dropped them on the ground. They were torn and disgusting and probably unwearable anyway. She continued to dig, dropping her dead flashlight, tinderbox, journal, yearbook, survival manual, and her musty, polyester sleeping bag in a heap. Her fingertips touched soft wool at the bottom of the bag and her heart leapt. Her mother’s shawl! Surely he wouldn’t take it from her? He had said plant fibers, like cotton. This was wool. Wool was okay, right?
She withdrew her hand and raised her eyes. “That’s it,” she said firmly, indicating the pile of things. His glance passed over them slowly, and then he nodded and she shoved everything but the clothing back in and tied the laces tightly.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Yes,” she said hugging the bag to her. Could he tell that she was lying?
A furrow appeared across his forehead. “How long were you out on your own?”
She exhaled.
“About a year.” His eyebrows went up, but all he said was, “There are more clothes over there if you need anything. No towels, but you can use them to dry off with, too.” He got up heavily and pointed toward the shower stall. “You’ve got about three gallons of water there. If you use it all before you rinse off, you’ll have to hike a ways to get more.” He handed her a slab of rough soap. It smelled overpoweringly of peppermint and lemons and felt greasy against her palm.
“So? Okay?” he said, preparing to go. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
Wait. Now that he was leaving, she felt the familiar lump of dread settle in her stomach. Funny how she felt safer when she was out in the open and could see her surroundings. Anyone could approach the tent and she wouldn’t know until it was too late.
“You can leave your old clothes there on the ground. I’ll be right outside.” He met her eyes, nodded, then ducked out the tent flap. She heard his deep voice as he greeted someone. It was comforting to think of him so close by.
The water was not as cold as she had feared. She made a washcloth out of her tank top and paid particular attention to her armpits and the back of her neck. The soap was gritty and so pungent, it made her want to sneeze. She gave up trying to work it into a lather after a couple of minutes, doused her head, and tried to work through the worst of the tangles. She washed her mouth out and ran her finger over her teeth to clean them. When she was done, her skin tingled and she could bear to smell herself.
It was a relief to kick her old clothes to the side. She’d been wearing the same two pairs of jeans for almost a year, the same T-shirts and tank tops and hoodie, washing them in the lake when she could. She’d tried to make her own detergent from soapwort and the fat layer from the belly of a dead squirrel, but it had been a disaster. The stink of cooking lard had driven her from her camp for a few hours, and she’d ruined one of her only saucepans. She sniffed her sweatshirt before tossing it onto the discard pile in disgust. It was funny how she hadn’t really smelled her stink before. She’d gotten so used to it.
She dragged her fingers through her curls one last time, both wishing for and glad there wasn’t a mirror.
The new clothes smelled strongly of bleach and were rough and slightly itchy against her newly scrubbed skin, but they fit okay. She rolled the pant legs up a little, laced her boots, and then dug through the pile looking for a sweatshirt. She needed something with a hood, preferably dark-colored, so she could vanish if she had to. Aha! She pulled out a sweatshirt. It was faded with washing and too big, but she slipped it on, instantly comforted by the fleece lining. Over that went her leather jacket. Now she could rough it outside for a few nights if she had to. She also grabbed another change of clothes, underwear, socks, and a couple of tank tops and stuffed them into her bag.
She shouldered the backpack and ducked outside. The rain had stopped, and the ground steamed slightly in the blazing sun.
Lucy shaded her eyes. The hospital tent stood in its own little area apart from the other lean-tos and awnings she could see scattered on the outskirts of the big square. People clustered together, exchanging worried glances and talking in low voices. None of the young kids were unaccompanied. Each had an older guardian, gr
im-faced and wary. Some of the teenagers were gathering piles of rocks; some stood along the path Lucy had traveled down, acting as sentries.
Feeling shy and awkward, she spotted Aidan a dozen yards away. He was standing close to that Del girl. Funny how she’d just started calling her that in her mind. Petty and sort of mean, actually, but there was something in the way the other girl held herself, as if she knew that she was beautiful and expected attention for it, that was really annoying.
Aidan leaned into her. Their heads were almost touching. His hand was on her sleeve. She yanked her arm away. A torrent of angry words spilled from her lips. He frowned and made a series of exaggerated gestures with his hands, and suddenly she laughed and pulled him close, her left arm slung around his shoulder. His arm slipped around her waist. It was an intimate gesture, and it halted Lucy in her tracks.
Lucy fumbled with the too-long sleeves of her sweatshirt. She must look like an elephant. And it was way too hot to be wearing all her clothes. Del was in a tank top and a pair of faded cargo shorts.
Slowly, Lucy walked in their direction, her eyes fixed on the pebbly ground. She tried to look as if she had a destination, a purpose. She kicked a rock. A minute ago she’d felt clean, refreshed; now she was sweating. She touched her hair, pushing the riot of damp curls back without success.
“Lucy!” Aidan said, and waved.
Del moved even closer to him. She didn’t smile. Lucy had never been so conscious of tripping as she was now, covering the ground that separated them. She prayed she wouldn’t stumble in front of Del’s piercing blue eyes. And if she did, she hoped she’d be knocked unconscious or something.
“Hi,” she said, reaching them. She was striving for unconcerned and cool, but it came out sounding like a question. Del smirked.
“Del Flowers, this is Lucy …?”
“Holloway,” Lucy said. “Lucy Holloway.” Man, even the girl’s name is exotic.
