The Divide

by Jeremy Robinson

  Damnit, I think, when his words draw a sob from me. He places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “Thank you. For what you did. I’m not sure I could have done it, but it needed to happen. You quieted her suffering. Kept her from becoming a monster.”

  “I failed to save her,” I point out.

  “We all did,” he says, carving up the responsibility between himself and the others.

  “They’ll eat her,” I say, pointing out the horrible truth that will haunt me.

  “What made her Shoba is already gone,” he says, hinting at his beliefs in a higher power and an afterlife. A discussion for another day. He squeezes again, wiping his tears away and straightening his posture, ever the warrior in control of his emotions. “We need to go, before the Golyat arrive and no one can be saved.”

  I stand and wipe my own tears, before Shua and I tiptoe out of the small battlefield, careful to avoid the ground where even the smallest wisp of steam rises.

  “Take a minute,” Shua says to Dyer, standing still, eyes on her desiccated husband’s Golyat corpse, “but that is all.”

  He follows me away, giving Dyer privacy, but not losing sight of her. We stop short of Plistim, Salem, and Del.

  “Perhaps we are lucky to have never found a love so intense,” I say. “Losing it exaggerates the pain of death.”

  “What of your son, and your father?” Shua asks.

  “They are blood,” I say. “Loved out of nature.”

  “That sounds cold.”

  “The mother of a murderer loves her son, even if she hates the man he has become,” I say.

  “As you did Salem when you set out to kill him.”

  The observation bites, and I nearly bite back, but he’s not trying to insult me. And, he’s right. “Yes. But when you choose to love someone…when you take someone who is not blood and surrender your heart to them... That is a different kind of love. To lose it like this… To take the head of the man you love… I cannot imagine such a thing, but I know I wish to never experience it.”

  “I think,” Shua says, head heavy, “you are trying to dull the pain of Shoba’s passing by denying you already have a keen understanding of what that feels like.”

  I want to defend myself, to tell him he’s wrong, to cuss him out, but in my heart I know I’d come to love the girl, blood relative or not. She didn’t deserve to die, not by my hand or anyone else’s. “The sting is a good reminder. Love has no place in our world.”

  Dyer turns away from her deceased husband and starts toward us. I take her approach as my cue to end the conversation I’d rather not continue. Not because I’d change my mind, but because I can tell my words have stung. Shua has feelings for me. It was easy to see when we were young. It is even easier now. And why not? We are attracted to each other. We have common history. We enjoy each other’s company. And, we have a son.

  The trouble is not that we have all those things, it’s that they—like Shoba and Holland—will likely be taken away from us over the coming days. The only way to survive is to close off the heart, fight, and if others die—even Shua or Salem—the rest must continue on. The same holds true if I die.

  My father taught me something he called a catchphrase, a saying passed down through generations of my family. I repeat it now. “The mission comes first.”

  “Without love,” Shua says, looking disappointed, “there would be no mission.” He walks away without looking back, joining the others. They strike out together, carrying the stretchers of rope, knowing Dyer and I will follow.

  “Give me that,” I say to Dyer, reaching out for her backpack.

  “I don’t need your pity,” she says.

  “Your arm.”

  “I have two.” She slings the pack over her good shoulder and carries on past me. When I catch up, she asks, “What did you say to make him pouty?”

  Knowing she’ll see through a lie, I tell her the truth. “I told him our mission comes first. That love has no place in our world.”

  “Harsh,” she says. “But true.”

  I feel a trace of justification. Dyer knows what I’m talking about first hand.

  “But it’s also bullshit,” she says.

  “Bullshit?”

  “What I’m feeling…” She clutches her chest. “It hurts all the way to my soul.” She motions to her arm. “Even if this turns me into a Golyat, it will not compare. Losing my life is nothing compared to losing my life.”

  It takes me a moment to hear the subtle difference in inflection, but then I get it. Somehow, Holland was more important to her than her own existence. Some old part of me understands, but it’s been a long time since I felt a connection like that. My husband is a beast, my son left me, I was separated from my father as a shepherd, and shunned by everyone who knew me as Eight.

  “The difference between the pain of death, and the death of a loved one is that the first ends you. The second, if you allow it, sets your course and makes you stronger.” She looks me in the eye. “No matter what becomes of me, I will see this through until my death, whether it be at the hands of a Golyat, falling into the Divide, or Shua’s blade taking my head. I will do that because Holland died doing the same.”

  We walk in silence, and I don’t think it’s because she’s run out of things to say. She’s just letting it sink in.

  “I’m like you,” she says. “An outsider married into the broad family of Plistim.”

  “I’m not mar—”

  “I know,” she grumbles. “But you’re a part of this family now, as is your son, and the man, whether you’ve got the balls to admit it or not, you have feelings for. The point is, you would do well to remember that the pain I have suffered tonight has already been suffered by all of them.” She motions to the four walking ahead of us. “They have lost countless loved ones over the past few days, including Holland and Shoba. My husband was Plistim’s son. Shua’s brother. Salem’s uncle. And whether you admit it or not, Shoba had become like family to you. Since the Cull, it is not customary for Modernists to linger about the bodies of their loved ones. Instead, we move on; we continue to live, and fight for our right to live free, to honor the dead. You might think they’re fine because they’ve trekked off into the dark without a word, but they are weeping for Holland and Shoba, even now.”

  I look at the group with new eyes, and see Shua wiping his sleeve across his face. Del and Salem walk side by side, both at the front end of a stretcher. Del closes the distance between them and puts her head on Salem’s shoulder for a step. It’s not much, but it says, ‘I’m with you.’ Plistim has his head hung low. The stretcher looks heavy in his hands. Their pain is palpable from here.

  “They’re carrying on despite the pain,” I say.

  “No,” Dyer says. “Because of it. I know you had no pleasant feelings for my husband, but when one of us dies,” she motions to the others and to herself, “this is a lesson you should attempt to put into practice.”

  She quickens her pace and leaves me alone with my thoughts, none of which are good company. My imagination drifts, showing me images of Shua being eaten, of Salem transforming into a Golyat. Then I relive the moment of Shoba’s passing, the feel of my blade passing through her neck, the sudden silencing of her scream. It doesn’t take long to bring tears to my own eyes. After wiping them away, I catch up to the others, fueled not by our recent losses, but by a determination to prevent the deaths of those I love. I look at the back of five heads.

  At the people I love.

  A distant chatter speeds us along as the rising sun turns the sky pink. A second chatter responds, and the ground starts shaking. The beasts must have detected the scent of Holland’s and Shoba’s deaths.

  How long will it be before they track us down?

  How long until someone else dies?

  Not long enough, I think as we continue our journey through a land long ago claimed by people-turned-monsters, who exist only to consume.

  35

  Seven days. Seven quiet days. No Golyats.
No screaming. No running. Dyer is still alive, and human. We’ve fallen into a steady pace and routine, covering an impressive amount of ground despite the heavy burdens we carry with us. I thought we would be easily tracked, but being absolutely saturated by the forest smells, and careful with our own, the only trail we’re leaving is the one carved into the trees every fifty feet.

  It seems like a futile effort to me, but I keep that to myself. If it gives the others hope, so be it.

  Our supply of jerky ran out two days ago. Del and I have had no trouble supplying squirrel meat, but Plistim and Shua have struggled to consume the raw flesh. Dyer, Del, and myself, being women raised outside Plistim’s family have no trouble with the still warm meat. And I’m happy to see that Salem has not lost his taste for it either. After some mocking, courtesy of Dyer, the two men forced down their first meal and have had less trouble with each subsequent meal since.

  The noonday sun is nearly above us when we reach a grassy slope leading to a tall crest, upon which a lone oak stands. Its wide branches shade the hill’s top, but the path to the hilltop will leave us exposed.

  Shua had insisted upon being the scout, but when it comes to stealth, my skills are undisputed. Shua might be good at sneaking up on people, but deer are far more skittish and have heightened senses of smell and hearing. If you can creep up on a deer unnoticed, there isn’t much in the world that could sense you.

  I hope.

  That’s the argument that landed me on the hillside, crawling my way through tall grass like a snake, invisible to anything at ground level. From above, a bird would have no trouble spotting me. The same holds true for a tall Golyat, but we haven’t seen or heard one of the monsters in days. The closer to the Divide we get, the less populated the world becomes.

  Plistim and Salem agree that we’re no more than a day’s journey from the Divide, but they also both admit they could be off by a week. Or more. The terrain is foreign to all of us, and the segment of map, removed from the bunker wall, does little to help us judge distance. While Salem had plotted and planned the journey to the FEMA facility, the route back to the Divide has been unexpected, and chaotic. Walking in a straight line through a land of hills, trees, cliffs, lakes, and rivers, wasn’t easy. But we maintained a steady pace for as long as the sun was in the sky, and covered a lot of ground.

  I slow near the hill’s crest, where the grass grows shorter in the tree’s shade. I close my eyes and listen. The breeze ahead is loud. Dry leaves scrape. The sound is pleasant and continuous. If not for the day’s heat and the possibility of being eaten alive, the sound would lull me to sleep. I test the air with my nose, sniffing like a dog. It’s sweet. My memory recognizes the odor, but cannot put an image to it.

  Detecting no smells or sounds associated with danger—normal or Golyat—I slide up onto the hill’s crest, where a twisting mat of roots and deep shade have conspired to prevent grass from growing. I rise into a crouch and move to the hill’s far side, peeking over the tan grass.

  A vast green clearing stretches for miles ahead, and to either side. It looks like grass, but it’s taller than me, and thick. Wind slides through the field, shifting stalks and filling the air with a leafy static.

  I’m not sure what it is, but there are no Golyats visible. While the occasional tree dots the landscape, there are very few spots for anything taller than Dyer to hide.

  Feeling safe, I stand so the others can see me from the bottom of the hill, and I wave them up. They come single file, carrying the heavy ropes. Dyer leads the way, still only carrying her own backpack. While she hasn’t transformed into a Golyat, the wound is red and hot. At the end of every day, she struggles with fever and night sweats.

  Despite their efforts to not leave a trail, it’s impossible for five people carrying two heavy stretchers to move through the tall grass without leaving their mark. While waiting, I draw my blade and carve the ancient symbol into the tree’s bark. I’ll add an arrow when I’m told where we’re headed from here.

  “What is it?” Dyer asks upon reaching the top and looking at the tall, green field beyond.

  Plistim and Shua lower their stretcher to the ground and join us.

  “Corn,” Plistim says after just a moment. “An ancient crop. A sweet vegetable.”

  That’s why I don’t recognize it. Crops have been outlawed for five hundred years with most ancient farms long since destroyed.

  “I’ve eaten it, I think.” I try to recall when, but the memory evades me. But my subconscious remembers it and sets my mouth to watering.

  When my stomach growls, the group tenses. I raise my hand. “Me.”

  “It grows wild in parts of New England,” Plistim says. “It’s likely your father had it served.”

  One of the perks of being an elder is first choice of meat and foraged foods. If something like wild corn was gathered, it wouldn’t be uncommon for an elder to keep it all. The only other people likely to have eaten it are those who collect it and are wise enough to partake before returning to the village.

  “We should eat,” Shua says, opening his pack where the day-old remains of three squirrels are wrapped.

  With the corn so close, I’m in no mood for meat, but I know I’ll need the sustenance. I would need to eat a field of vegetation to substitute meat. But I’m still craving the flavor.

  We eat in silence, enjoying the view, the smell, and the sounds. After the long journey and the horrible events that preceded it, I really just want to stay beneath this tree and sleep for days. But until we’re across the Divide and either prepared for winter, or at our destination, we need to keep moving.

  When I stand, and all but Plistim groans, I know I’m not the only one feeling weary. When the elder stands with me, the others rise.

  “What are you thinking?” Plistim asks.

  Over the past days we’ve fallen into a comfortable dual leadership position. It now feels natural for me to decide our next steps. I think, because we haven’t run into any trouble since Holland’s changing, they believe in my skills. But what I know, and won’t tell them, is that I think we’ve just been lucky.

  I point across the field of corn. “See the odd shaped hill?”

  “It looks more like a giant stone,” Plistim says.

  He’s right. The jagged surface is more stone-like than soil, but the large patches of green growing on its surface means at least some soil is present.

  “A hill once,” Salem says. “Eroded now. I wonder how much more of it is underground.”

  “It’s a rock,” Dyer says, stretching her wounded arm and wincing.

  “For all we know, it’s the top of a glacial valley that’s been filled in,” Salem adds. “Landscapes change over time.”

  “A big rock, or a really big rock, it’s still just a rock.” Dyer motions to the stretchers. “I want to go. My arm needs to be tested.”

  “I’d like to look at it first,” Plistim says.

  “I changed the bandage this morning,” she says. “I’m good.”

  “Still infected?” Plistim asks.

  “A bit.”

  “So, yes.”

  “I’m tired of only carrying my own weight,” Dyer says. “I don’t like to be coddled, or mothered.”

  “Shua, you’re with Dyer. Plistim with Del.” I nod to my son. “Salem, with me.” I turn to Plistim. “I’ll scuff a path in the dirt. If nothing goes wrong, we’ll break beneath that tree—” I point to the only tree between us and the rock. “—and then the rock.”

  Plistim nods, and I set off with Salem. We crouch walk down the far side of the hill. Having looked for miles in every direction and seeing no sign of a Golyat, I’m less concerned about leaving a small trail through the grass, and more concerned about entering the corn, where we will become all but invisible to anything hunting us, but also to each other.

  The cornstalks are taller and sturdier than I was expecting, stretching twelve feet tall. I step inside the field and despite having to push my way through, the plants simp
ly bend away and spring back up. As long as we’re in the corn, there will be nothing to mark our passage save for the gouges I’m making with my toes.

  I take a moment to breathe, surrounded by the strong scent of the corn, still familiar, and still stirring my hunger. The smell is so powerful that detecting anything else would be difficult, which is a benefit, and a risk. I give Salem a nod, and he waves the others along before following me into the field.

  Large buds grow from the stalks, each the size of my forearm. They assault me as I walk past, far heavier than I would have thought the plants could support.

  After several minutes of silent walking, I ask, “So…you are fond of rocks?”

  Salem laughs. “Not rocks, but what they tell us.”

  “So you study rocks to learn about…what?”

  “It’s called geology. An ancient science.”

  “You’ve studied the ancient sciences?” While I understand the concept of science, the practice of it beyond applications that improve the nomadic life, are strictly forbidden. While I’m not surprised a Modernist would be interested in such things, I did not expect my son to have acquired some kind of expertise in them.

  “Biology, chemistry, astronomy, genetics. I’ve read about them all, but put little of what I’ve learned into actual practice.”

  “What is genetics?” I ask.

  “It’s what makes us, us,” he says, which makes absolutely no sense. He must realize this, because he adds, “We’re made up of tiny little bits that we can’t see, and all of those little bits contain information. It’s called DNA. If you change our DNA just a little, you might end up with a deer instead of a person. When a child is conceived, the baby is composed of both the mother’s DNA, and the father’s. They work together to form someone that is both, but new. It’s why I look like you and dad.”

  “And why, when you’re angry, you look like my father,” I say.

  Salem is silent for a moment. “Is he well? Grandfather?”