“How did you leave things with your family?” Jonah asked.
“What do you mean?” Hayden asked, an unexpected edge to his voice.
“I mean, did you offer them any forgiveness for how they treated you or loosen their ropes or anything?” Jonah asked, and I wondered if he was thinking the same as me. That even if his family was as bad as he described, leaving them tied to trees was harsh. He was a stranger to us, but we had still untied him.
Hayden’s eyes shifted to the past and then as quickly back to Jonah’s. “No, I didn’t offer them forgiveness.”
His words sent a chill through my spine, though I didn’t know why.
“How could he forgive them after what they did to him?” Sage said. “And to untie them would have put us and the Taits at risk.”
She was right, of course. And Mr. Tait did say that Hayden had always been kind to them. I was sure my lack of trust in him had less to do with him and more to do with where we were.
“This place is so quiet,” I said, as the eeriness of this town could no longer be ignored.
Hayden said, “Sometimes people stay hidden during the day.”
“It’s more than that,” Sara said. “I’ve got a weird feeling.”
“I do too,” I said.
Typically in our travels, we saw an indication of people, if not the shadow of someone darting away from us. In some houses, we had detected people hiding behind curtains, or yards with the lawns ripped up and a few vegetables growing in well-tended dirt.
But here there was nothing—no gardens, no shadows, no evidence of people.
Jonah stopped, hitting some fresh scat with his shoe. It was filled with bones and fur. He lifted his head. There was more scat, much more than we were used to seeing.
“The predators have taken over,” he said, the sound of his voice ominous in the empty street.
Twenty-Four
“There’s my house,” Blaise said, pointing to the two-story brick house at the end of the street.
The yards here were large with lots of room for vegetable gardens. Still nothing. We were cautious as we approached, and then darted into the backyard where the privacy fence would keep us hidden.
I had been home with Blaise only once, and still I remembered the peace and serenity that flowed from all things in Blaise’s house.
“Mom hasn’t been here in months,” Blaise said, kneeling beside a plant I had learned was chamomile.
She snapped off a tender flower, crushed it in her fingers, and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Blaise’s mom was an herbalist and the backyard garden had been her pharmacy.
“How do you know?” Josh asked, glancing cautiously at the house.
“She would never allow her garden to be overcome with weeds. Especially now, when she would need it more than ever,” Blaise said, rising from her knees.
“And the swing. It’s splintered from being left out during the winter. They always brought it in at the first snow.”
“The first snow would have been the day after the light,” I said. “They were probably a little distracted.”
“And here, they have half a cord of firewood left,” Blaise said, ignoring my words. “I’m telling you they haven’t been here.”
The plants around us were overgrown. Weeds sprouted between the normally neat patches of herbs. The swing was splintered, as she’d said, and the house was quiet. They weren’t here, and Blaise was right; they had been gone for months.
Jonah was at the back door. He tried the handle. The door swung open as he pointed his gun. Josh stepped beside him, his knife pulled and ready.
Blaise walked between them into the house. Much like Sara’s apartment, it looked exactly as it had the last time I’d been here. But unlike Sara’s family, Blaise’s parents should have been able to stay. Their house backed up to a strip of woods with a stream. Blaise’s dad could hunt, and her mom knew what greens and roots were safe to consume. They had plenty of firewood for heat and cooking. They should have been okay here.
Jonah and I went upstairs, roaming from room to room.
“What happened? Where did they go?” I asked when Jonah and I entered her father’s home office, searching for clues.
Beside the window was a framed wedding invitation announcing the marriage of Felicia Ann Thomas and Richard Wallace Hutchins.
“They’ve been married almost twenty-five years,” I said, “and it’s as if they just disappeared.”
“It’s as if they all just disappeared,” Jonah said, staring out at the silent street.
When we joined the others downstairs, Blaise was slipping glass jars into socks and placing them into a small shoulder bag. “Wherever my parents are, they didn’t go there by choice. My mom never would have left her medicine. She would’ve known it could save their lives.”
“Is it medicine?” Sage asked, picking up a jar and holding it up to the window for us to see. The contents resembled dead grass clippings.
“If I’d had this and known what to do with it,” Blaise said, taking the jar from Sage, “I might have been able to save your mom.”
She slipped the strap over her shoulder and went to the bookshelf that filled a wall—the wall where in most houses the TV would be. Blaise pulled book after book from the shelf.
“Here, take these,” she said, handing them to us.
I read the title of the one in my hands: A Beginner’s Guide to a Healing Garden. I placed it in my pack.
She went to her room. A moment later, she returned in clean clothing and shoes that weren’t torn. She carried a stack of clothing and tennis shoes with her.
“Go into my parents’ room and see if anything my dad has will fit you,” she told the guys. “But hurry.”
Sara, Sage, and I grabbed the clothes Blaise had brought us and changed. Even Juliette was able to get a new pair of pants that only had to be rolled twice, and a clean shirt that wasn’t too baggy. I got a new pair of shoes. While we waited for the guys, I repacked my bag, exchanging dirty clothes for a fresh set and wrapped the book in Jonah’s old sweatshirt so it would be padded and protected.
Blaise continued to rummage through every drawer and cabinet, searching for hints as to where her parents may have gone. She moved as if driven by calm purpose. There was no hint of being overwhelmed or not knowing what to do. When we left, maybe her emotions would take over, but in the place where she had spent her life, she was precise and methodical, as if channeling her parents.
They were opposites in so many ways, and the bookcase represented those differences. Her father’s books focused on religion and politics. Her mother’s portion centered on herbs, composting, yoga, spirituality, and novels written long before any of us were born. But their similarities were clear in Blaise. They loved her with abandon, they were kind and generous, and accepting that many people were not. They refused to let that change them. They were serene and patient, with an inner peace that I never understood. More than any of that, they were devoted to helping others—especially those most in need.
“Blaise?” I said, swiveling my head to where my friend stood.
She shifted her eyes to meet mine.
“That place where your parents volunteered. Where was it? Would they have gone there?” I asked.
Her mouth fell open. “Yes, of course! They wouldn’t have stayed here, they would have gone to the shelter.” She grabbed her pack and slung it onto her back.
***
“I don’t like this,” Jonah said from beside me.
“What?” I asked.
“This place is deserted. Blaise’s parents may have gone to the shelter, but where did everyone else go?” His gaze was darting to empty windows in the neighborhood.
“Some would have died,” I said.
“Most would have,” he said, “but not all. And this would be the perfect place to stay. There’s water and woods. These houses all have chimneys and some even have wood stacked, ready to use. Plenty of people should have been able to survive h
ere, but it’s like no one did.”
Astrea stopped short. The hairs between her shoulders stood straight up, she bared her teeth, and let out a low growl from deep inside.
We drew our weapons, but it was too late.
They were on us in seconds. A dozen of them, some armed with guns, others with crowbars, bats, and pipes. Men and women. Their expressions wild, as if they belonged to a time before humanity.
Twenty-Five
Their camp was nothing like the town on the hill where we had met Mrs. Pryce and left Haz and East. Here there was no peace, only hollow eyes. Hollow eyes of those who wore the torn clothes of slaves and hollow eyes of those who carried the weapons of harvesters. Humanity had died in each of them, and more so the harvesters. I supposed that made sense: treating people like animals to be owned would destroy the soul of the one who chose to control, more so than the controlled.
“What is this place?” Sara whispered.
“Harvesters’ camp,” Hayden answered, his voice quivering.
They shoved us to the ground near a rusty metal building. Harvesters surrounded us, their weapons pointed at us.
“They’re going to separate us,” Jonah whispered to me.
“What?” I felt panic.
“In the field, they are separated. Men and women and children. They will divide us in hopes we won’t fight.” He pretended to adjust his body as he tilted his head and spoke quietly to me.
“What do we do?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“You,” a man shouted, pointing to Juliette, “come with us.”
“No,” I said, throwing myself in front of her.
The man lifted his foot and brought it down toward my face, while Jonah reached in front, twisting the foot in midair and the man with it. He fell to the ground in the midst of our pile.
“You just became my favorite,” the man said with an evil expression on his face. He scrambled to his feet.
The ten harvesters guarding us grew to fifteen.
“You. Up,” a woman said to Juliette while aiming her gun at Jonah.
“No! Please let her stay with us,” Sara cried out.
“How dare you! How dare you speak to me. Filthy slaves do not speak unless spoken to,” the woman shouted.
“And what if she does?” Sage said.
“Then she will be the one responsible for the girl’s death,” the woman answered, the barrel of her gun moving from Jonah to Juliette.
Juliette placed a hand on Sage’s shoulder as she stood, her body shaking. She held Astrea against her chest.
A man with greasy black hair ripped Astrea from her arms. Jonah pulled me back as I leapt toward the man. Never had I felt so much hatred for someone whose name I didn’t even know. Juliette whimpered and Astrea wiggled, trying to free herself. The man shook her to be still. Astrea turned, her teeth bared, and bit down hard on whatever flesh she could reach. It was the side of the man’s face and ear. He screamed and threw her from him. Blood dripped from his torn ear.
“Run,” Juliette yelled.
Astrea paused for a moment in hesitation, and a shot rang out. The man with the torn ear had missed. Astrea sprinted in zigzags as she made her way into the field. More shots followed. The slaves in the field lifted their heads, watching the chocolate lab leap in and out of rows of crops. Then she was gone—disappeared into the woods.
My heart broke and rejoiced at the same time. I didn’t want her to leave us, but at least with the wild dogs of the forests she stood a chance. In this camp of wild humans, she did not.
“Move it,” the woman said, pushing Juliette.
The girl fell to the ground and then stood, brushing the dirt from her hands. Her expression was different; gone was the scared, overwhelmed child. In her place was defiance. She went forward, being shoved toward a building across a narrow street. The sign on the front read: Little Treasures Preschool.
“You four, let’s go,” a man with bushy red hair said.
My stomach churned, and Jonah’s body tensed beside me. I took his hand in mine, squeezed it, and released it. I stood, not wanting to, but knowing that at this moment we were outnumbered. That would not always be the case; there were far more slaves than harvesters.
Jonah said nothing when I stepped from his side. In front of me, Blaise separated herself from Josh and, as much as I longed to stay with Jonah, I longed more for her to stay with Josh. Their lives had so seamlessly become one that to separate them was a cruel form of torture. I bit my lip, wanting to cry when I saw the expression of pain on Josh’s face. She was his life in a way I could only hope I would one day be to Jonah. Sage and Sara stepped beside me. I slipped my hand into Blaise’s as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
We were shoved forward, toward a narrow white building with a cross above it. Inside, the walls were lined with windows. The floor was scuffed pine. Rows of long wooden benches filled the large room. It was a church, the first one I had ever been in.
“Get changed,” one of the women who had led us into this place commanded. She pointed to a stack of ragged beige clothing that sat in a heap on one of the benches.
“We like the clothes we have,” I said. The butt of her rifle collided with my stomach and I doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Do not speak to me, slave.”
The woman who called me a slave was ten or fifteen years older than me. Her brown hair had a ring of blonde at her neck, the dye having grown out. Seeing the disgust in her eyes when she looked at me, I wondered what her life was like before this. Was she married? Did she have kids? Did she drive a minivan, like I was told mothers did in small towns?
None of that mattered as my stomach knotted into spasms. Now we were enemies. Not because we actually were, but because someone somewhere had said we were, and she believed them.
***
The sun hung low in the sky. The woman with the ring of blonde hair had ordered Blaise, Sara, and Sage to pull their hair into tight buns. All hint of individuality was gone from us, in our beige rags and pulled-back hair. When I was a kid, I wore uniforms; I never liked them, yet they never made me feel less human. These did.
Guns were pointing at us, marking our path to the fields.
We were spaced several yards apart. Each of us carried a bucket for collecting weeds. I stopped when they told me to and knelt in the dirt when they told me to. I despised every second of their control. This was slavery. My soul cringed with the awareness.
The dirt was soft and cool. It filled the space between my nails and the flesh of my fingers, coloring the white and soft pink of the nail a tinge of faded brown. I methodically filled a plastic bucket with weeds as my mind spun furiously, trying to work out a way to escape. The other women in the field were thin and frail, their eyes hollow. Without words they told me we would not be well-fed and we would be worked beyond exhaustion. We would not be seen as humans; we would be objects to be used and abused.
We must escape and we must do it soon, while our bodies and minds were strong and free. We must do it before we began to believe we were slaves.
In front of me Blaise knelt, lifting her head whenever the guards weren’t watching. She was searching the field for her mother. If she was here, she had been here far too long, and her body and mind would be frail. Escape for her would be difficult, but we would not leave without her.
The field for the children was across the street, behind the building where they had taken Juliette. I could just make her out in the distance. She went from child to child, emptying their buckets into a wheelbarrow, pushing it between the crops. She was one of the oldest, or at least tallest, of the children. She had been a slave before, in the city, and lost her voice. I prayed that wouldn’t happen again. I prayed she would fight the darkness that would try to consume her.
In our own field were a handful of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds. Juliette must have just missed the cutoff. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad for her or us. It would surely make things more complicated. Though not b
y much. Three guards … that’s all there were overseeing about twenty children. Yes, the guards were armed, and I had no doubt they would shoot to kill. But still, only three. Those odds gave me hope.
In my field, the forty or fifty workers toiled. The eight guards were comprised of seven women and one man. If East were here, she could’ve taken out all of them by herself—but she wasn’t. Sara would have to fight; she wouldn’t be happy about it, but she would do it. Blaise and I could handle two each. East had taught us well. She always said believing you could win was what finished a fight between two closely matched opponents, and Blaise and I would do what it took to survive.
The other women might help us, or they might not. It didn’t matter. What mattered was surprising the guards so they didn’t have time to fire a weapon; otherwise, the guards from the men’s field would come. I hadn’t gotten an accurate count of them yet, but I estimated at least fifteen. If we took out our guards and freed the children, perhaps we could free the men. It wouldn’t be easy. I had seen only a few of the male guards up close; they were not small, and by the looks of them, they had been chosen for their cruelness and willingness to kill.
The field for the men was behind all of the buildings. The distance was far enough that I couldn’t make out any one person, only shapes. I thought I recognized Jonah, but it was only a guess.
Of the total of four buildings, one housed the women, one was for the children, one for the men, and a fourth had once been a barbeque restaurant. From this building, smoke poured from the chimney. It meant there was at least one person in that building, but there could be fifty. There was no way to know.
In the distance I heard the noise of a machine, which stood out in our world of silence. From behind a patch of trees a green army truck emerged, the one we were loaded into when we were captured and brought here. Then another and another. Behind them, four motorcycles.
Their arrival brought more fear and unknowns. What would they do here? Who were they bringing? Who would they take when they left? How many of them were there? Could we escape while they were here, and if not, how long would we have to wait?
From the Shadows Page 17
