The Last Girl

by Joe Hart

  Ian stoops and retrieves the book from the floor, keeping his back turned to her.

  “Do you know what kept Dantès alive and fighting to free himself while he was imprisoned in Château d’If?”

  “His need for revenge.”

  Ian remains motionless. “Maybe. I like to think it was something more along the lines of hope. Hope of redemption and a true second chance. Revenge was a choice he made after he escaped.” The old man turns toward her, thumbing the well-worn pages of the book. “They were looking for you, Zoey. Many times the helicopter passed over us while I was bringing you here. I know of the compound built in the river. I’ve seen it myself.”

  She doesn’t realize she’s standing until her hand is on the doorknob, her muscles tensing to run. “Why do you know about the ARC? Who are you?” The volume of her voice rises until she’s nearly shouting. Ian remains placid as ever.

  “I’ve already told you who I am, and as for your other question, that requires a bit more time to explain. I’ll tell you if you give me the chance.” He motions to the chair beside the bookcase and begins to busy himself near the stone alcove. Zoey falters in the entryway, half of her longing to run out the door while the other half demands she sit and hear what he has to say. Slowly she moves to the chair and lowers herself into it.

  Ian crumples several pieces of bark into a pile at the center of the alcove and adds a layer of sticks to its top. There is a pop, and a flame blooms from a lighter in his hand. Within a minute, a hardy fire crackles and smoke rises to vanish in the pipe above the stone setting. He adds a larger log to the blaze after a short time before sitting in the other chair. Heat seeps into the room, and despite her apprehension she can’t help but relish the warmth.

  “I was in the army when I was a young man. That’s where I learned how to stitch someone up,” Ian says, gesturing at her stomach. “I fought in several skirmishes before the Dearth, but I wasn’t convinced that the higher powers truly had America’s best interests in mind when they sent young women and men such as myself off to die. So I retired from service after five years and became an engineer. Do you know what that is?”

  “Someone who designs things,” she answers, an image of Lee so clear and poignant coming to her she has to look away.

  “More or less. I fell in love with a woman named Helen, and we were married. We had a son and a daughter. We were happy.” The old man begins to knead his knotted fingers together. “Our son entered the military, just as I had, several years before the Dearth began. Following in my footsteps, I suppose. He lived on a base not far from here. Our daughter loved animals and became a veterinarian, that’s a doctor for animals. She was very successful but never found someone she could share her life with.” Ian falls silent, and the only sound comes from the fire gnawing the wood into flame.

  “When the Dearth came, there was utter panic. Uprisings, murder, chaos, it was a horrible time to live through. Our daughter was deeply opposed to the government’s action and, against our wishes, she traveled with a group to protest the National Obstetric Alliance in the country’s capital.”

  The mention of NOA here in this small house, in the middle of the woods, sends goose bumps flowing across Zoey’s arms. She steadies herself and waits for Ian to continue.

  The old man’s fingers stop moving. “She was killed by riot police sent to put down the protest. Someone threw a stone, and that was all it took for the authorities to unleash their violence against them. Our son’s army base was overrun by a marauding group of thousands. He barely made it out alive and was on his way here when he was attacked again. All that was left of his car was a burned husk by the side of the road.”

  Zoey swallows the lump that has risen in her throat. She has to stop herself from reaching out to the old man. Instead she focuses on the weaving flames within the hearth.

  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

  “Thank you.” Ian composes himself and takes a deep breath. “Helen and I remained here as the world fell apart around us. The Dearth became an epidemic and to be honest, at that point I didn’t care if anything or anyone else survived. My children were gone, and we were alone.”

  “Were you immune to the plague?”

  Ian’s silver eyebrows draw down. “Plague?”

  “The virus that caused the Dearth. It killed almost everyone else. Were you and your wife immune?”

  The old man studies her for a long moment. “Zoey, there was no plague. They never determined what caused the lack of female births, but there was never a plague.”

  The room takes on a hazy appearance at the corners of her vision, and she pinches the skin of her forearm. “Then how did all the people die?”

  “They were killed by our own military. At a certain point there was an enormous uprising by the populace. The rebel forces fought for years but were never able to gain any ground. They were crushed under superior firepower, and those that defected from the military in protest of what was happening were executed as well. Millions fled the country or died trying. The atomic blast that killed the President was a last-ditch effort by the rebels, but to no avail. By then it was too late. Over the years, many more perished by one another’s hands, starvation, illness. But it all began with genocide.”

  The enormity of what Ian is saying hits her like a slap.

  Lies. Everything she has ever known. Lies.

  She suspected that the entire truth wasn’t being told to them for years, that Miss Gwen and the others were twisting facts to meet their own needs, but this, this is unfathomable. If Ian is telling the truth, it means that the population of the United States wasn’t decimated from without, by an uncontrolled virus, but from within, by its own government.

  “Is that what they told you?” he asks. “That a plague was responsible?”

  Zoey can’t answer. She simply nods.

  Ian drops his eyes to his lap. “So much lost. Not only life but truth as well. It’s unforgivable.” He glances up. “Perhaps it would have been better if there had been a plague. At least our humanity, or lack thereof, would have gone out in a graceful way. Maybe something resembling compassion would have shined through.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s so hard to understand.”

  “Why? Why would they kill everyone?”

  “Because they were afraid. That’s why so many kill. Fear feeds the worst in all of us. It drives the most despicable of our natures to the surface. The masses disagreed with NOA and the soldiers that came to take away the women, so they were slaughtered in fear they would overrun the powers that be, or were, as it is. Not to say the rebels were in the complete right either. People panicked and lashed out. At times there was no rhyme or reason to it.”

  “‘Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.’” Zoey recites from memory. She gazes into the fire and only looks at the old man when she realizes he is staring at her.

  “Who gave you a copy of the book?” Ian asks, gesturing at The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you escape, Zoey?”

  “I killed,” she says quietly. “I killed and I died there.”

  “How many other women are imprisoned?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Let me answer that question with another question. What were your intentions after escaping?”

  Zoey blinks and looks away toward the windows. The afternoon is growing darker. Somewhere in the distance the sky chuckles with thunder. “I don’t know.”

  “Were you going to go back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you want to save the others?”

  “I don’t know!” She thrusts herself up from the chair, hands clenched. Dizziness assaults her and she reels with it, stumbling one step to the side. Ian is on his feet in less than a second, hands held out to help steady her. “I don’t need your help! Just—just back off!”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.”
<
br />   She stabilizes herself against the warm stone surrounding the fire. Ian watches her, his hands still out before him. Suddenly his eyes flick over her shoulder and back.

  Zoey spins, looking out through the window. Only vivid green and brown bark. But was there movement between the trees down the hill? She turns back to him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Zoey, calm down. You’re stressing yourself too much.”

  “Who’s outside? Is it them? Is it Reaper?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “You’re lying.” She staggers away from him, head hissing with static. She has to get out, get away from the house and off the mountain.

  “Zoey, please. No one’s going to hurt you. I invited some people who want to help you. That’s where I was coming back from when you woke. They’re friends. Please calm down.”

  “No, I won’t go back. I won’t.” She tries to rush down the hallway, but her feet tangle and she falls hard to the wood floor. All of her wind rushes out in a gust that leaves her empty, powerless. The grayness at the corners of her vision multiplies as she tries to rise. She falls again, the strength in her limbs ebbing to nothing. Ian shouts something as she feels her consciousness slip away like a stone dropped in a pool, but the sound of booted feet on the stairs outside the house reaches her even as her pleas die in her throat and the world fades away.

  27

  She becomes aware of a susurrus of low voices, very much like the sound of wind in the big pines.

  “Absolutely amazing that she made it this far.” Deep, throbbing bass voice.

  “I’m still having trouble believing it.” This voice smoother, quieter, but still definitely male.

  “You and I both.” Ian.

  So, three of them. Zoey tries moving her arms and legs. They are unbound. She’ll have to be fast, they’ll all be armed, but they think she’s still asleep.

  “Are you sure about her?” The softer voice again. “Maybe she came from a camp down south. I’ve heard rumblings of several girls being born there. Or maybe from the city itself.”

  “We all know those rumors are just that,” Ian says, closer to her now. “Rumors. NOA would have raided them years ago.”

  Zoey pauses. She has their locations in the room pinpointed and is almost ready to leap from the bed, but their conversation doesn’t make sense. They’re speaking about NOA as if they aren’t associated with it.

  “Where’s our good doctor?” Ian asks.

  “She’s changing clothes. Fell in a stream on the way up. Madder than a wildcat when she came out,” the deep voice says. His words are followed by rumbling laughter.

  “Okay, you guys, there’s not enough room in here for all of us, and besides, we don’t want her waking up to a roomful of people. The poor thing’s probably scared enough as it is, so shoo. Get moving.”

  There is the clunking of footsteps retreating from the room. When they’re gone, Zoey cracks her eyelids just enough to survey her surroundings.

  A woman stands at the end of the bed. Her hair is a dirty red and is tied back from her face, which is oval-shaped and long. Her lips are crimson against her pallid skin, their edges pressed together to form a straight line. She is tall and thin, her frame covered in a pair of dark pants and a gray, button-up shirt.

  The woman moves closer to her and pulls a strange rubber apparatus from a bag she carries. One end is split, with two curving metal pieces, while the other ends in a silver disc. She places the split ends in each of her ears and moves forward, the disc gripped in one hand.

  Zoey snatches her wrist when she’s close enough, yanking the woman off balance. With her other hand she grasps the woman’s throat and squeezes with all her strength, which isn’t much. The woman’s eyes pop wide and she issues a quiet squawk.

  “Who are you?” Zoey asks. The woman jerks away, yanking herself from Zoey’s grip. She takes a breath and begins to rub at the place on her neck where Zoey’s fingers sank in.

  “My name is Chelsea Tenner. I’m sorry for startling you. I’m a doctor, I wanted to check to see how you were healing. Ian tells us that you had quite a trip.”

  Zoey studies her for a long time before licking her lips. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Chelsea.”

  “No. You said something after that.”

  “Tenner. My last name is Tenner.”

  “You have a last name?”

  Chelsea squints at her. “Yes, of course.” A look of dawning overcomes her features, and she shakes her head. “They never told you yours, did they?”

  “No.”

  Chelsea sighs and returns to the bedside, pulling the wooden chair with her. She sits, combing back an errant strand of hair that’s escaped its tie. “We mean you no harm whatsoever, Zoey. Ian told us about finding you and asked if we would come.”

  “Who’s with you? How many?”

  “There’s five of us, and I’ll let them introduce themselves once you feel up to meeting them.”

  “Who are you people?”

  “Survivors, just like you. Look, I know you’re scared and suspicious—you have every right to be. We want to talk with you, that’s all.”

  Zoey watches Chelsea’s eyes, searches for a tell in her body language that reveals a lie or even a half-truth. She sees none. Slowly she nods.

  “Okay. Is it all right with you if I check you over? Make sure Ian did a good job of being a nurse?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Chelsea places the silver disc on Zoey’s chest. She listens and asks Zoey to take several deep breaths, moving the device around to different areas. She inspects the wound on her stomach, clucking with an apparent disapproval of the stitches. Lastly she takes a small, digital wand from the bag and has Zoey hold one end beneath her tongue. The unit beeps after only a few seconds and Chelsea nods.

  “Generally you seem to be okay. You don’t have a fever, your wound is healing, though you’re going to have a nasty scar thanks to Ian’s sloppy hands, and your heart and lungs sound very healthy. You’re a little malnourished and dehydrated, but that’s easily fixable. I think you’re going to live.” Chelsea smiles, and there is something in it that reaches out to Zoey and instantly sends an inkling of appreciation through her. She’s not at all like the doctors at the ARC.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now one thing I did notice is that you smell quite rank—not your fault, of course, bathing facilities were probably scarce in the wild. You’ll find a new set of clothes that should fit in the bathroom. There’s soap in there as well. I had Ian turn up the water temperature so it should be fairly hot. Let me know if you need anything else. We’ll be waiting for you in the living room.”

  Chelsea stands and exits the room, leaving the door wide open. Zoey crawls from the bed and follows her into the vacant hallway. There is a murmur of voices in the living room but she slips into the bathroom before she catches sight of anyone else.

  A stack of clothing rests on a short stool inside. The pants are a tough and beaten canvas the color of sand, and the shirt is a thick button-up of faded blue. There is a folded pair of woolen socks and even underwear that feels freshly washed. She tries not to think of where the underwear came from or who’s worn them before.

  Zoey strips and turns the nozzle on the shower, which produces a weak stream, so unlike the blast of hot water she’s used to, but when she steps under the flow it is glorious. She finds the bar of soap on a little shelf built into the shower surround and washes away weeks of grime. After what seems like hours, she finally feels clean. She climbs out and dries off with a threadbare towel hanging from a nearby hook. She dresses slowly, taking her time to get used to the clothing. It is much rougher than all the prior garments she’s worn but it feels good against her clean skin. An ivory-colored brush rests on the edge of the sink and she picks it up, seeing for the first time that a small mirror has been set on a ledge above the drain.

  A drawn and shrunken version of he
rself stares back from the glass. Her cheekbones are more pronounced, and there is a strange look to her eyes that at first she mistakes for hollowness. After a long moment of staring, she sees that it isn’t a void that has taken up residence in her gaze but a sharp, feral wariness. They are the eyes of an animal.

  She brushes her hair without looking in the mirror again, the tangles in it so tight she’s not sure they’ll ever come free. It takes her the better part of a half-hour to release all the knots and loops that have formed in the time since her last shower. Thoughts of meeting the others waiting in the living room send a bristling fear lined with excitement through her. She still has no idea if they can be trusted, but if she were to judge them by Ian and now Chelsea, she would have to concede they mean her no harm.

  Zoey opens the door, the cool air from the rest of the house making her shiver after the warmth of the shower. She moves down the corridor and stops at the threshold of the kitchen.

  There are six people in the living room and one dog. Ian, Chelsea, and Seamus she knows. Then there is a black man who looks to be only a few inches taller than she is but is broad through the shoulders and thick through the chest. His skin is twice as dark as Crispin’s or Sherell’s, almost to the point of being purple, and his eyes are deep-set and unblinking. He stands beside a stout woman of perhaps fifty. She wears a black cloth over her head that’s tied tightly in the back and her face is round and full. Her nose is unnaturally flattened, indicating that it’s been broken at least once and never fixed, while her lips are pale and almost nonexistent. In one of the chairs rests a dark-haired young man maybe a few years older than Zoey. He is very handsome, with brown eyes and a square jaw dusted with whiskers. He picks at a tear in his pants with one fingernail over and over. Behind his chair, speaking with Ian, is a tall man wearing a black vest with several pockets lining its front. He has even darker hair than the boy and it hangs lank and straight down to his ears. The muscularity and power of his body is apparent even through the clothes he wears. His arms rest languidly at his sides, but he shifts on his feet with an easy grace that suggests he could spring into action at any second.