Ashes, Ashes

by Jo Treggiari

  After Henry had gone back to his potatoes, Lucy forced her fingers to continue cutting up bunnies. Her brain was yammering away at full speed. If what Henry had said was true, she should not be alive. Unless she had been vaccinated when she was a kid and Maggie had been wrong or lying. Her sister wasn’t the type to play tricks on her siblings—that was more like something Rob would have done—but maybe she just hadn’t had the facts straight.

  Could she have forgotten? The first time she’d run through the glass doors had completely faded from memory, so maybe something in her just preferred to ignore unpleasant events.

  Lucy pressed her fingers against the skin of her upper arm, trying to feel for the raised scar of a smallpox vaccine. She felt nothing. She needed to go somewhere where she could look. Find a mirror. Examine every inch of her skin. But she couldn’t do it with all these people around. She wondered about bathrooms: Did they have them? Were there latrines out in the fields or something? Surely someone here owned a mirror. Perhaps Henry? He looked like he spent time getting his hair just right.

  Another part of her brain reminded her that if she did have a vaccine scar, she would surely have noticed it before now.

  Her stomach twisted. She had eaten too much too fast. Lucy took a sip of water and tried to think. Maybe she should leave? Go back out in the Wilds? But the Sweepers … Now that she’d seen them in action, she was scared. No one seemed able to stand against them, and by herself she’d be totally helpless. And the dogs—they were hunting people with the dogs.

  She wished there were someone she could talk to. She might be sick and not showing symptoms. She could be a carrier like Typhoid Mary, who’d shown no symptoms but had infected people just by cooking their meals. She looked down at the chunks of rabbit glistening on the chopping block, the pile of cotton ball tails. Her stomach heaved again. Cooking would kill the disease, right? If she had it. Lucy imagined her body swarming with virus. She grabbed the edge of the table and pressed her fingers into it until her gut settled. Maybe she could tell Aidan. Or maybe she shouldn’t say a word.

  As if the thought had summoned him, Aidan appeared behind her and hopped up onto the table. “Hey,” he said casually. “I was looking for you.”

  Lucy fought to control her panic. She made a noncommittal noise and stared at the table. She drew a bowl of water toward her and sluiced the blood from her hands, scrubbing at them with her nails. Slowly, her heart stopped racing. She peeked at Aidan under her eyelashes.

  His sweatshirt was damp with sweat; there were mud stains on the knees of his jeans and a few dry leaves caught in his hair. She stared at his fingers, thinking how strong they seemed. That made her heart race again and distracted her from morbid thoughts. He tore off a piece of bread, swooshed it in the oil, and popped it into his mouth. He eyed the portions of chopped-up meat. “Cat?” he asked sadly. Lucy flicked a rabbit tail at him. “Oh good,” he said and flicked it back at her.

  “So where have you been?” she asked, looking at Aidan’s dirty fingernails.

  “Out,” he said.

  Lucy felt a surge of irritation. Which was good. It banished the last of the fear and made it possible for her to meet his eyes without blushing. “With Del?” she asked before she could curb her tongue. Aidan looked at her and then jumped down, ignoring the question. Maybe he picked up on the sneer in her voice? She vowed to keep her mouth shut about the other girl.

  He picked up the cutting board and transferred the meat into a plastic serving bowl. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her arm. He led her to where the others were standing around a large pot on the fire. It was blackened iron and big enough to bathe a child in. About forty pounds of carrots and onions simmered at the bottom. The smell that rose was heady. Henry stirred the mixture occasionally with a long wooden spoon. A young girl, maybe eleven years old, with long blond pigtails was cutting up the last of the potatoes, helped by two small kids and a gray-haired old man with a walrus mustache. Grammalie Rose was no longer there.

  “Ready for this?” Aidan asked Henry, hefting the bowl of meat.

  “Sure, pile it on,” Henry said. “Potatoes next, Sue,” he told the pigtailed girl. He lifted a bucket of water and held it poised for a few seconds before upending it into the sizzling pot.

  The good smells were making Lucy woozy. She sat down on a bench and closed her eyes, letting the fragrant steam wash over her.

  Aidan sat down beside her. “About fifteen minutes,” he said with an amused tone in his voice. “Can you bear it?”

  “Possibly not.”

  “Well, at least we eat first,” he said.

  “We?” Henry said, waggling his eyebrows at Aidan. “And how exactly have you helped with this fine meal?”

  “I believe I hauled that water,” Aidan said. “And I washed up last night.”

  Henry spread his fingers. “All right, all right.” He turned to Lucy. “Can you help Aidan with the bowls and spoons?” He pointed toward the stacks of mismatched kitchenware. “We need thirty, forty of everything.”

  Lucy grabbed a handful of spoons and shoved them in her back pocket. She stacked bowls along the length of her arm and anchored them with her chin. It was a brave move. One clumsy step and she’d drop everything; but amazingly she made it to the table safely. She set the places. Aidan put down plates, water jugs, and three more loaves of the crusty bread, and scattered a few bread knives along the length of the rough pine table. He started cutting slices and, grabbing a knife and another loaf of bread, she did the same. With half an ear she listened to the surrounding chatter.

  People materialized from the corners of the kitchen tent, wiping their wet hands on their pant legs, removing stained aprons, and stretching sore neck muscles. They each grabbed a bowl and lined up for a few ladles of thick stew. Dishes clattered. A dozen conversations were going at once. Lucy felt the familiar shyness creep into her bones. It was like the high school cafeteria. She’d always eaten alone, outside in the quad or in the library. Aidan pulled her to her feet and shoved a bowl into her hands. “If you don’t get in there, you’ll never eat,” he said, elbowing a space for her.

  Henry grinned as he served her. He leaned forward and winked. “I gave you a little extra.”

  She smiled shyly and sat down at the far end of the table, away from the little clusters of people. For the next few minutes, she concentrated on eating. It wasn’t until she looked up that she realized Aidan was sitting right across from her. He was smirking like a maniac.

  “Never saw anyone actually inhale food before,” he remarked.

  “Oh God, I …” She put her hand up to her mouth and wiped it clean. A few spots of stew were speckled across the front of her shirt. There may even have been some caught in her hair. She wished she could just sink through the floor.

  He pointed to the corner of his lip and tapped.

  “What?”

  “You missed a spot.”

  He half stood up and reached across the table. Was he going to touch her? And then suddenly he jerked away.

  “Make room,” Del barked, squeezing in next to him. The kid she’d forced farther along the bench glared at her but said nothing. He just picked up his bowl and turned to his neighbor, Sue. They bent their heads together, whispering furiously and darting covert glances at Del.

  “Hi,” Lucy said, determined not to get into a situation with her again. She even managed a small smile before returning her attention to her bowl.

  Del stared, then nodded.

  Score one maturity point for Lucy! She carefully scooped up a minute amount of stew and carried it to her mouth. The food had reached her stomach, and she felt a soothing warmth spread to her limbs. I could fall asleep right here on the table, she thought. She listened sleepily to Del.

  “Did you scout today?” she asked Aidan. “I couldn’t find you.”

  He shook his head. “I went a mile or two up the road. I thought about setting permanent sentries, but there’s too much area to cover.”

  “What
about pit traps? We could dig some around the periphery and then just keep watch by the road,” Del said.

  “Too dangerous for the little kids. You know they run around everywhere.”

  “Well, how about blocking it off? Then they couldn’t drive the vans up to the camp.” Del banged her spoon against the table for emphasis.

  Aidan rubbed his forehead. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. “Leo figured out that it would take a ton or more of rubble to block it off. We can try, but it’ll take weeks. And it’s harvest time. We can’t really spare people from the fields right now.”

  “There must be something!” Del stared at the table. “What’ll they do to them?” she asked suddenly in a gentle voice, sounding completely unlike herself. “To Emi and Jack?”

  “They’ll be okay.”

  She gripped his arm hard. Aidan winced. “Promise me.”

  He shook his head, looking uncomfortable.

  Del subsided into a stormy silence. The conversation along the table had dwindled, the sound of cutlery against bowls quieted; people finished and left. Others hauled water for washing up. Lucy was thankful not to be summoned for more chores. She rested her head on her arm.

  Things were bad. She was scared, but she was also not hungry for the first time in months. She felt strong and revitalized. If she had to, she could run for miles, cross New Venice, and find somewhere safe on the outskirts. Or travel farther. North, perhaps, like Aidan had said.

  She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until someone shook her gently by the shoulders. She opened drowsy eyes and looked into Aidan’s face. Directly behind him stood Del, her arms crossed tightly, her mouth flattened in a line.

  “Del said you could share her sleeping tent,” Aidan said, helping her to her feet.

  “Scout’s been sleeping somewhere else anyway,” Del said with a bitter laugh. She didn’t look as if she’d offered freely, but at this point Lucy didn’t care. She swayed and shook her head, trying to drive the cobwebs from her brain.

  Aidan picked up her backpack and handed it to her. She clasped it to her chest. He led the way inside a small tent tucked between the gutted remains of two buildings. Trickles of the day’s fading light fell through gaps between the canvas panels. Lucy caught a glimpse of three tarps on the ground arranged around an unlit hurricane lamp, two covered with blankets and clothing, before Aidan pushed her gently toward the third. She bumbled forward, tripping over her feet, and let the backpack slide to the ground as she sank down to her knees. Too tired to even dig out her sleeping bag, she pulled her sweatshirt and jacket firmly around her, tucked her knees in, and curled up on her side. She was asleep again almost immediately.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ATTACK!

  Lucy was awakened by an excruciating pain in her wounded hand. She opened her mouth to scream but someone’s fingers pinched it shut before she could emit a sound.

  “Quiet!” Del hissed viciously. Lucy gripped Del’s forearm and squeezed as hard as she could. “Don’t yell,” the girl said, slowly removing her hand from Lucy’s mouth.

  “Get off me,” she replied between clenched teeth. The lamp in the middle of the tent threw a small circle of light. It was enough to make out Del, fully clothed, balanced on the balls of her feet as if she was expecting an attack.

  Del shifted her weight and the boot lifted. Lucy decided it had been an accident; the opposite was too much to consider. She clutched her squashed fingers to her chest. She wiggled them. They seemed bruised, but not broken.

  She wondered if it was close to dawn, but then through the gap in the roof she glimpsed the moon, half-hidden behind clouds. Standing above Lucy’s bed, Del was a still form against dark shadows. She could see the other girl’s rib cage move in and out with her breathing. She seemed to be waiting for something.

  “What’s going on?” Lucy asked. She’d only slept a few hours and her body was stiff and achy.

  “I heard someone outside the tent,” Del murmured. Her head darted around. She cocked it to one side like a dog. Lucy listened, too, straining to hear.

  Distantly she heard a rumble. Thunder? Or could it be car engines? She sat up. She’d gone to bed with all her clothes and her boots on. Under the triple layer of jacket-sweatshirt-thermal, her skin was clammy with sweat. Her head felt groggy, her eyelids rimmed in sand.

  Del was as immobile as a statue.

  A crescendo of rumbling rose, followed by a shout and, closer still, the thud of running feet. And now she could hear voices raised in panic coming from all around and the sound of tires on sandy soil.

  Cars!

  “It’s them. The Sweepers. They came back,” Del said.

  Lucy was instantly awake. Her heart pounded as if it would spring out of her chest; every muscle twitched. She scrambled to her feet. Through the canvas, she could see the dim shapes of figures moving outside. They had lights. Maybe flashlights or torches. She couldn’t tell if they were scavengers or the enemy.

  “Stay low,” Del breathed. “They might have brought the dogs.” She was frozen in a half crouch. Lucy mimicked her posture.

  “If they brought the dogs, we should get out of here!” Lucy said, trying to breathe normally.

  “Don’t move,” Del said with an imperious hand gesture that made Lucy bite her lip in annoyance.

  The other girl moved slowly, her eyes on the hurricane lamp in the middle of the floor.

  Lucy suddenly realized that their silhouettes must be visible from the outside.

  Before she could say anything there was a thump as Del kicked the lamp over. The flame went out. Lucy blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the sudden gloom.

  “Let’s go,” Del muttered.

  Lucy fumbled for her knife. It wasn’t at her waist. For the first time, she had forgotten to fasten it on her belt before she went to bed. She cursed herself and dug into the sweatshirt pocket. Not there, either.

  It must have fallen out.

  She bent to the tarp she’d been sleeping on, searched the surface with trembling fingers. The thick layer of clothing made her clumsier than usual.

  “Come on,” said Del. “And be quiet, would you?” Lucy thought but couldn’t be sure that she’d muttered something about a “buffalo.”

  “My knife.”

  “Leave it.”

  “No!”

  Del snorted with impatience. “Hurry,” she said. Lucy felt around the edges of the tarp and was finally rewarded with the hard outline of the hilt under her fingers. She picked up the knife, instantly feeling more confident.

  A motor revved nearby. It sounded as if it was right in front. The tent flap was tied shut, but it was flimsy. They couldn’t go out that way.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Del whispered, making for the back of the tent. She pulled on the bottom where it was pinned to the earth by metal hooks.

  “Help me get this loose. Quietly.”

  Lucy joined her and, stowing her knife in her pocket, grabbed a handful of canvas and heaved. The ground was hard, compacted mud; the stakes had been pounded in, and they couldn’t pull it loose. Del muttered a few choice curse words under her breath.

  “Wait,” Lucy said and pulled her knife back out. She stabbed at the heavy material. The sound of tearing canvas seemed incredibly loud. Del stifled an angry exclamation, which Lucy ignored. Once she had a big enough hole, she held it open and Del clambered through it, swearing as her boots caught in the folds of material.

  Lucy started to follow her, and then she remembered her backpack. First rule: Always carry what you need with you. She hesitated. She could imagine what Del would say, but the habit was too ingrained. For over a year she had survived on her own because she was always prepared for the worst, and because her backpack held everything necessary for her survival.

  She couldn’t leave it.

  Del was just about through, but it would just take a second.

  She turned back to the tarp, scooped up her backpack, and shrugged it over her shoulders.
Then she ran back to where Del’s foot had just disappeared through the gap.

  “What are you doing?” Del hissed, sticking her head through the hole.

  “I’m coming!”

  Someone burst into the tent. A heavy body struck Lucy in a tackle. She fell to the ground, biting her tongue hard on the way down. The taste of blood was in her mouth. She was pinned by strong arms attempting to grab her own and the weight of someone’s body across her legs. She flailed, striking out wildly, and twisted around so she was lying on her back. Lucy kept struggling and kicked out with both feet. A sharp crack. She had hit something hard enough to make her ankles throb. An explosive grunt, the sound of fumbling, and then a helmet thudded to the ground near her head. The visor was smashed. Before she could struggle to her feet, the man threw himself forward. Lucy brought her knees up, trying to force him off of her. She lashed out with her fist, feeling the vibration in her elbow as she connected with his face. His breath was hot against her cheek. She felt a slick wetness on her forehead. Her blood or his?

  A thick arm pushed against her neck. She tried to land another punch, but it was hard to breathe. Black dots danced in front of her eyes, and her pulse pounded in her temples.

  Lucy attempted to scream, but the sound was choked off in her throat. With one last burst of energy she raised her head and bit down as hard as she could. It wasn’t much—the man’s arm was covered in thick material, denim or heavy cotton, but it was enough. He shifted and she arched her back, simultaneously rolling to one side, and managed to push him off. She scrambled to her feet, panting, and aimed a kick at him, not caring where it landed. She heard the satisfying thump of impact.

  The man groaned and threw out a hand, closing his fingers around her ankle, and suddenly she was pulled off her feet. She landed hard on her back, the blow cushioned by the bag across her shoulders, although she felt a sharp pain radiate up her spine. She must have landed on her dead flashlight. The breath left her body in one involuntary gasp. And then he was dragging her toward him. She dug her fingers into the dirt, but it was useless.