“That’s we’re all having. I talked to the others; they saw it, too. Someone is coming out of the fog, coming to save us.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do. And I ain’t freezing my ass off while all this wood sits out there.”
“Bad idea.”
Roc wraps the blanket around her face. Her lips glisten. Cyn smells peaches.
She doesn’t say anything.
“When the weather breaks, we’re going to start exploring what’s out there. I’ve mapped the surroundings, but it’s time to go farther out. I’m planning a day-long hike in two directions, far enough out that we’ll be back by sunset.”
“Good luck,” Roc says.
“You’re going, too.”
The covers slide up Roc’s face, leaving a sly eye peeking out.
Cyn scoots closer to the stove. Her skin is hot, but her bones are still frigid. She puts her head inside the blanket teepee, breathing the warm, rank body odor.
Welcome to the cold, she thinks. Here to stay.
11
“Miranda!” Mad waves her hand in front of Miranda’s face. “Yoo-hoo, girl. You going to eat, or do I need to feed your breakfast to the chickens?”
Miranda looks at the plate in Mad’s hands. “Thank you,” she mutters.
All the girls are sitting and waiting, spoons in their hands. Everyone is there except Roc. Once Miranda sits, they dig in. That’s Cyn’s new rule: eat together, like a family.
Except Roc. No one seems to mind.
A dysfunctional family.
Cyn is at the head of the table, fingers steepled in front of her. She watches the others eat. Eggs and hominy. And prunes so slimy they race past the tongue and down her throat before Miranda can properly swallow. She doesn’t want to taste them.
“This sucks.” Mad looks at the cold wood stove.
“This all sucks,” Cyn adds. “But we’ve got to save the wood for the real cold.”
Cyn promises not to light another fire. Roc lit the one yesterday. No more, Cyn promised herself.
“As soon as the weather breaks, we’re hiking into the countryside. I’ve got some routes planned to get as far out as possible and be back before sunset. Maybe there’s a trail out there, or a sign of civilization.”
The wind blows, the roof crackles in protest., reminding them how cruel the weather is.
“What if it never breaks?” Kat asks.
The door slams open. Roc throws a square of wet square of plastic onto the floor and stomps mud into the floorboards. “Started without me?”
Miranda hunches over her bowl even though it’s empty. She feels Roc’s shadow pass over her. The kitchen lock beeps. Roc slides the keycard out and puts it around her neck.
Cyn stares ahead.
Roc makes just as much noise coming back, grabbing the chair next to Miranda. A poison slick of fear coats her stomach. She hides within her blonde locks.
“That’s not what we’re eating,” Cyn says.
Roc pops the top off an extra large can of baked beans. She dumps them into a pile and shovels in two spoonfuls. “Well, you shouldn’t have started without me.”
Mad walks loudly to the kitchen, using Cyn’s key to open the door.
“She seems pissed,” Roc says around a fourth spoonful.
“Give her your keycard,” Cyn says. “She’s running the kitchen, you don’t need it.”
“Give her yours.”
“I’m first up every morning, getting things ready. Mad needs access.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making sure no one is thieving.”
“And who’s watching you?” Kat says.
Roc stops chewing. Lowers the spoon. She glares from beneath her hooded eyes.
“You better watch your mouth.”
“I’m keeping an eye on Mad,” Cyn interrupts. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll go easier if she’s got the key, Roc.”
Roc hunkers over the plate, pushing the final bites with her dirty fingers. Every last bean eaten. She drops her heavy hands on the table and exhales, looking around.
“It’s food you’re worried about?” she asks.
“We’re conserving.”
“Well, I know where there’s more. How about you, Shiny?”
A rancid flavor crawls into Miranda’s throat. She feels Roc’s weight lean closer, smells her musky odor. Cold beans on her breath.
“You know where we can get some food?” Roc kicks the back leg of Miranda’s chair.
“Stop,” Cyn says.
“Stop what? Stop getting more food? I thought that’s what this was about—getting food. Make up your mind, fearless leader. You want food or not? Because if you do—and I think we all do—I know where to get it.”
Roc slaps the tabletop. The dishes rattle.
Miranda squeaks.
“I don’t want food, Shiny. I want…the hell…out of here!”
“STOP!” Cyn’s chair tips over. She hangs on to the table’s edge. “Stop threatening her, Roc. She’ll go inside when she’s ready. There’s probably nothing in there but food that’s not going anywhere. We’ve got to focus on conserving what we’ve got.”
Roc hovers in place. A fearful shiver trickles down Miranda’s neck.
“Whatever you girls want.” Roc tosses her plate in the middle of the table. “Call me when you’ve had enough of this crap.”
“We’re splitting wood after cleanup,” Cyn says.
“Good. We need some.”
“You’re helping.”
Roc shakes the water off the plastic, drapes it over her head, and leaves the door open. The rain patters on the front porch.
They sit quietly. Kat is the first one up. They begin clearing off the table. Cyn is still standing, eyes cast down.
She never finishes breakfast.
12
Miranda snuggles up in bed, warm and smoky.
Roc started a fire that afternoon and no one said anything. Not even Cyn. They spread their wet clothes on chairs. The fire was wrong, but they were warm.
Roc did nothing but take.
Miranda feels the decay of cowardice in her backbone.
They all do.
When the back door clicks shut sometime in the night, she comes out of her sweet slumber. She has learned to ignore the nightly raids while everyone slept. Everyone else slept right through it. Miranda could stop her, but not by herself. But if they all come together, if they’re all sufficiently pissed off, if they all taste the foulness of their cowardice, they’ll rise up together.
Miranda can do that. She can bring them together.
If she can wedge a few slivers of wood between the door and the doorjamb. Roc will be locked out. She’ll have to pound on the door to get back inside, wake everyone up. And if they don’t wake up, she’ll stay out there in the rain.
Maybe she won’t survive. That’s how nature works.
She quickly finds three long slivers that are thick on one end, like custom-made shims. She starts for the door—
Something’s not right.
Roc’s bed isn’t empty.
It has to be her. Who else would do that?
There’s a pile of clothing in the center of the cabin, like someone had undressed, stepped out of stiff jeans, and tossed shirts and socks next to them.
Her ears prick to attention, primed to grab any sound out of the ordinary. She walks softly, stopping each time a board creaks. Miranda squats low to the floor, grabs the pants, but it’s too dark to read the tag inside the waistline.
She goes from bed to bed, all of them occupied except one. The one to the right of the front door. The blanket is turned back, a dirty sheet exposed. Lines carved into the wall.
Miranda covers her mouth.
She runs to the bed, pats the covers like Cyn must be in there somewhere. She has to be. She can’t be the one. She just can’t.
Miranda runs to all the beds, no longer concerned about noise or who might return from the midnight run, because it
can’t be Cyn. She identifies them all and they’re all there, sleeping soundly.
All except Cyn.
Miranda rubs her face, pinches her arm. She has to be dreaming. There has to be an explanation, has to be a reason.
She’s not a thief. Can’t be.
Miranda looks out the window. The dinner house looms. Nothing moves. No ghosts. No Cyn. She considers going out there, but what’s she going to do if she runs into her in the middle of the night while everyone else is sleeping? What good will it do?
Instead, she crawls into bed, hides beneath the heavy blanket. Staring at the crackling stove. Listening to the bunkhouse resist the rain. She doesn’t move.
Until the doorknob turns.
Her heartbeat thumps in her ear, against the pillowcase. In her throat. Miranda nearly closes her eyes, peeking through a crack. She spies the form walking slowly past her bed and around the stove.
The fuzz on Cyn’s head is orange in the stove’s glow. Her clothes drip water onto the floor. She strips them off, slaps them over a chair until she’s completely naked, her hair matching the hue of her pubic hair. Despite the orange glow of the fire, her skin is pale as moonlight.
The body of a mature woman.
Cyn pulls one of the dry sweatshirts off of a chair and wipes down. She rubs the scruff on her head. Her ribs push from beneath her skin, her pelvis knifing out.
She dresses in the center of the bunkhouse. Miranda pushes down the blanket, observing her sluggish, mechanical movements. Watches her put the finishing touches on a perfect crime. When everyone else is dead asleep, she can do what she wants.
But Miranda’s not like them.
Now she knows.
Cyn climbs into bed and doesn’t move. Miranda’s skin crawls. So exposed. So betrayed. Cyn pretends to be one person, but she’s another beneath the surface. She’s a thief and no one knows it. At least Roc is honest about her darkness. It’s the wolf you don’t see that’s dangerous.
Miranda lies awake for most of the night. As the embers die and the bunkhouse cools, cold penetrates the walls and slithers beneath her covers. It’s a different kind of cold, one that a wood stove can’t cure.
Before morning, she crawls out of bed. She’s tired of being scared and hungry. Tired of the cold.
She has to act now, while they’re all still asleep.
13
Cyn notches another line.
She doesn’t count them, just sees the bundles. Funny how minutes become hours, hours become days… Will it become years?
The dream hasn’t changed. Something is in the gray, but it doesn’t mean someone is coming for them. Dreams are thoughts, not reality.
Cyn plucks her clothes from the chair around a cold stove, still damp. She pulls her boots out from under the bed. She stitched the holes in her socks, but they won’t last. They already have the color of chocolate.
Her feet are caked with mud. She needs to do a better job of washing them, especially before getting into bed. A bad case of jungle rot will only make things worse.
The wind harvesters are relatively quiet. The patter of rain is gone. She runs to the dinner house, her stiff boots squeaking. Cyn gets an old-fashioned coffee percolator set up. There might be enough coffee to brew for another couple weeks. No one else drinks it. Coffee is for adults.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
She checks the shelves while the percolator burps. Everything is in order. No gaps, nothing shuffled around or apparently missing. That’s good. Cyn will update the inventory list after breakfast.
The coffee is strong. The caffeine surges into her head, clearing out the cobwebs. She holds the mug with both hands, the steam warming the tip of her nose. She’ll collect the eggs when she’s finished.
Cyn stands at the window, occasionally sipping, watching the sky lighten over the trees. The brick house is brighter. The windows are lit, like another lamp has been turned on.
Something’s changed.
She almost drops the mug, coffee splashing on her chin.
In a second floor window, a shadow passes.
SEPTEMBER
Biting the hand that feeds.
Blaming the one that bleeds.
14
“Cyn!”
Cyn looks up with a log in one hand, the ax leaning against her leg. Jen’s running alongside the trees, waving as she approaches the barn.
“She’s come out!” Jen’s shouting.
Cyn drops the ax and sticks her hand in a bucket of frigid water, cools the blisters. Sweat tracks down the sides of her face even though she can see her breath.
The brick house is still lit up. All the lights have been on since Miranda disappeared. They haven’t seen her in days, thought she was dead. Cyn saw a shadow pass by a window from time to time. The girls had seen her ghost.
Cyn walks through the garden; several rows have nearly defoliated to the soil, weeds already crawling over their withered leaves, rain resting on the waxy surfaces. Drizzle drifts down in tiny droplets.
The girls are in front of the brick house.
“What’s going on?” Cyn asks.
“You ain’t going to believe this,” Kat says. “Beauty Queen dumped a whole bag of winter clothes for us. We’re talking coats and pants, socks and shoes. We’re set for winter, boss.”
Jen holds up a sweater. “So long smelly rags, hello Versace!”
It’s a travel bag, something a hockey player would lug onto a bus if he were hauling designer gear for women. The girls pull out sweaters and coats, shoving them back to the bottom in search of something better, thicker, and warmer.
“Take it to the bunkhouse, keep it from getting wet. And take inventory of what’s in there, see what we’ve got.”
Roc snorts. Inventory doesn’t exist in her world.
“I’ve got something for you, Cyn.” Jen holds up a white sweater, white pearls attached evenly across the front. “Match your hair.”
Cyn laughs. She wouldn’t mind getting all dressed up, but there’s a time and place for that. It isn’t now.
They drag the oversized luggage through the grass, giggling. It’s like Christmas. In Hell.
Roc hasn’t moved off the fence that is clearly defined by the trampled grass. Her arms are stiff, each hand latched onto the opposite bicep. She’s staring at the door, which is slightly ajar.
Is that music?
String instruments moan in concert. At first she thought it was the wind but, no, it’s violins and cellos calling out long, mournful tones. Cyn hadn’t spent much time near the brick house since Miranda had gone in.
Roc hardly left.
Cyn pulls a square plastic sheet out of her back pocket, unfolds it over her head. The rain tracks off the edges. It’s dripping from Roc’s furrowed brow.
“Want under?” Cyn lifts the corner of the plastic.
Roc eyes set deeper.
“That winter gear is nice.”
“Can’t eat it,” Roc says.
“What she doing?”
There’s a loud bang somewhere deep inside the house. Cyn stands on her toes, as if four inches will give her a better vantage point to see through the windows. A few steps in either direction doesn’t help.
Something is sliding. The door opens. Candlelight flickers against the walls. Classical music bellows.
Miranda backs out with something behind her. Her hair is radiant, pinned above her ears. The jeans are new. The coat, too. And the outdoor Merrell hiking shoes—those look new.
She looks up at the gray and dimming sky, pulls the fuzzy-edged hood over her head.
“Jesus,” Roc mutters.
Miranda pulls a travel bag out of the house. It thumps down the steps, scratching the wet grass. She stops a few feet from the fence line, the tall grass on the inside. She goes back to the porch and fetches a bamboo stick with a plastic hook attached to the end.
“Use this.” Still not looking at either of them, she offers them the bamboo. “Drag it across the fence. I stuck rain gear i
n there if you want to put it on.”
“Princess,” Roc says.
Cyn hooks the handle of the travel bag, sliding it well past the fence. There are shoes and boots, tons of socks and rain slickers. Roc ignores the one Cyn holds up. Rain drips from her chin and brows, eyes dark and deep.
Cyn shimmies into a green poncho, throws the hood on. The material sticks to her skin.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll send out food tomorrow, once I get it sorted.”
“What you mean is pick out the best food and give us the rest,” Roc says.
Miranda pulls at the strings dangling from the hood.
“I thought you were scared?” Cyn says.
“Not so bad.”
“Find any phones?”
“No.”
“You checked all the rooms?”
“Yes.”
“Even the one with the dead body?” Roc adds.
Miranda’s lips twitch. She flicks a dark glance at Roc. “If there was a phone, don’t you think I’d call someone?”
“So you haven’t checked them all?” Roc says.
Miranda holds her glare, turns to Cyn. “I can wash the clothes and dry them when you need it.”
“There’s a washer and drier?” Cyn asks.
“It’s like a regular house. Looks like six or seven people lived here.”
“What for?” Cyn asks.
Miranda shakes her head.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Roc says. “What else do rich people have to do with their money besides build a house in the middle of nowhere? Huh?”
Roc leans on the bamboo stick.
“Probably too noisy in the city to hear Mozart. And all those poor people get in the way, too. That’s why we’re out here, right, Shiny? We’re here to chop wood and weed the damn garden. We’re in the servant quarters getting the horses ready and serving up meals. We’re slaves, Cyn.”
Roc elbows her in the ribs.
“They got a shower in there?” Roc pokes the ground with the stick. “Hot water? You got that, too? I know you do because that hair is shining under that hood, girl.”
Miranda dips her head.
“Probably have a toilet to tinkle in, too. You tinkle, right? We piss, you tinkle. And you sure as hell don’t fart. You fart, Cyn?”
Foreverland Is Dead Page 5
