The Vestige

by Caroline George

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

  Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  Dr. Rackley, my college psychology professor, mentioned in a lecture that the human mind can protect itself from the effects of a physically and emotionally disturbing event. He said trauma creates chaos in the brain. We can subconsciously flip the switch and turn off the engagement that plants us fully in a situation. The pain hurts less. The memories are dull and obscure like a nightmare.

  I am proof of his teaching because when my blankets are ripped off by a man in full-body armor and his arms yank me out of bed, I’m sucked into that safe state of mind, placed within my own mental dome while the end occurs around me. Hazy. Filled with screams that might be mine. What’s happening? Why is he hauling me outside? Have the Scavs found us?

  A syringe protrudes from my left leg. Didn’t feel the needle. I try to lift my arm, but it won’t budge. Instead, it dangles over the soldier’s back, above a blurred ground. Scream—I have to scream louder and fight before my eyelids grow heavier.

  Gunfire is a pounding drum. I roll my head as a group of soldiers are massacred in front of the Command Center. Two eyes stare up at me from the ground, embedded in a familiar face—Ezra. His chest gapes open, exposing his ribcage and organs. Blood everywhere.

  Scavs are here to kill us.

  I’m going to die.

  Grass embraces me when I land in a mangled wad on the ground. I claw at the dew-dampened soil and muster enough strength to kick once—one kick to my attacker’s chest plate. He grips my t-shirt and wrenches me forward. His helmet is ugly like a Halloween mask, jagged and black, an expressionless piece of steel. He presses the barrel of his firearm to my forehead, clicks a bullet into place. Cold metal against warm, living skin. Not for long. I’ll grow cold, too.

  Whatever was in that syringe burns like acid in my veins. I writhe in the dirt and send my focus racing down the gun’s barrel, over the Scav and into the sky where stars are blended into dim specks. Dead and corpse are familiar words. I’ve seen death. I’m friends with corpses. This should be easy.

  Arms entwine the Scav’s neck, forming a noose of muscle and bone. His body makes a violent snapping noise when his neck jerks to one side.

  Jack replaces the soldier in my tunnel vision. He’s bloody, caked with ash and dirt, but alive. “Fight the drugs. You must stay awake.” He pulls me to a standing position and loops my arm around his neck. “Julie, we need to get to the woods.”

  That’s my name. It sounds nice coming from his mouth.

  Woods? Where are the woods?

  “Your mind will begin to fail,” Jack says as he drags me in a sprint toward the silhouette of trees. “Don’t let the chemicals take you, at least, not until you’re someplace safe.”

  Ammunition ricochets off the earth beneath our feet, whizzes past our heads. Bodies rise in lumps across the yard. Crimson grass. Pretty. Like a painting.

  “Listen, Julie. You have to survive.” His face is tight like a knot—jaw clenched, brow furrowed, eyes squinted and filled with tears. “Even if we’re separated, you must get the truth away from here.”

  Why can’t I feel my legs, my skin? Where is Mom? She was supposed to bring takeout for dinner. Jon said he’d be home in time to watch that vampire show we like.

  General Ford kneels outside the closest barracks with his arms stretched behind his head. A Scav stands behind him with a rifle. The shot rings fresh. Another person vanishes into a puff of red. I should stay to clean up the mess, bury everyone in the old tunnels so they’ll rest in peace.

  “Hold on to me.” Jack scoops up my body and charges toward a smear of green. “Hear me. I love you. We fought hard. Keep fighting, okay? Stay awake. We’re almost there.” His pounding strides bounce me up and down—I’m going to be sick.

  We made out a few hours ago.

  There are splinters in my back.

  His lips tasted of fireworks and neo-soul music.

  A loud crack turns Jack’s arms to air. I slam into the grass, and the world flashes pitch black. Ringing drowns the gunshot frenzy but can’t mask the repetitive thuds, snaps, and whams. I roll over and scream—that’s definitely my scream—when a Scav beats Jack with the butt of a firearm. His body breaks and bleeds. No. Stop. He’s dying. Please don’t take him, too.

  “Wake up, Jack,” I wheeze. “You have to fight.” Pain shimmies up my thighs as I shove myself toward his disfigured form. Tears warm my cheeks. When’d I start crying?

  Blood splatters across my face when an axe implants itself in the Scav’s helmet. His body collapses. Sutton stands behind him, panting, pale as a ghost.

  “Help Jack. Please.”

  She crouches next to him and feels for a pulse. Her gory nightdress gathers above her waist, exposing her lace thong. “He’s gone. We can’t help him.” Her voice is on the verge of breaking. She runs a hand over his eyes as if switching him off.

  The loss of him is everywhere, all at once.

  “No,” I squeal when Sutton binds her arms around my waist and yanks me away from him. I grab at his clothes and accidentally jerk the ID tags from his neck—two silver plates and a wad of chain. “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. I have to protect him.”

  “Yes.” Sutton squeezes the numbness from my body. She grips my chin and makes startling eye contact. “We have to leave, and Jack isn’t coming with us. He’s been dismissed from the mission.”

  Dismissed. Not killed. Transferred to a prettier place where he works a nine-to-five desk job and flirts with cute baristas at local coffeehouses. He’ll wait for me there, in his Elysium.

  “The drugs are knocking you out, Julie. Focus.” Sutton yanks me forward. “Run.”

  Away from death and the life I have left.

  Into a wilderness where I’m invisible.

  But if the Vestige is wiped out, the truth will die, too.

  So I run with tears streaming my cheeks, filled with a terrifying sense of hardness that pulses from my core. Brady and the Listers are killed in a mass execution to my right. Fire devours the mess hall. Sutton’s face is blown off in a cloud of crimson mist.

  Dismissed.

  I snatch the backpack off her shoulder and crash into the dense forest. Branches whip me. Thorns and sharp rocks fillet my bare feet as I crawl up a muddy slope. Then, I’m lying flat on my back, surrounded by foliage that’s out of focus. Am I someplace safe? How far did I climb?

  Blackness burns my vision like a flame to paper—Mom and Dad lounge on the patio with glasses of wine. I will myself to roll beneath a shrub, but my limbs are dead—Jack dives off the dock, into glistening water. The universe spirals out of control—Jon opens his arms to let me in.

  A blazing, orange cloud lifts into the sky like a nuclear plume. It billows over the canopy of leaves, roaring and spooling. I close my eyes—which somehow fills me with relief—and cough on a single, powerful sob. The Underground was bombed. People died.

  Jack is gone.

  I failed my mission.

  He meets me in sleep’s sepia haze, appears at his table by the window with a copy of his favorite book and a half-eaten scone. His dark hair is hidden beneath a stocking cap. The Living is written on his forearm in my handwriting. He’s okay here, in this winter version of Charleston, and maybe a part of me is with him. Maybe he’s waiting for me to waltz through those old French doors to begin my shift.

  Pain strengthens into a nagging voice that draws me from the darkness. Light blazes red through my eyelids, roasting my brain. I wince and curl into a ball. A twig snaps. Leaves crunch. I’m not in bed. Sutton must’ve snuck me outside. She was furious when Ezra told her what I said to the council.

  Trees appear beyond my barred lashes, swaying with the morning breeze. I clutch my aching head and prop myself
against a trunk. Hunger pierces through me with so much aggression, I cry out. Something horrible happened last night. Sutton didn’t drag me here. She saved my life.

  Niveous ash rains from the clear sky, a cruel copy of snow. I dust the particles off my pajamas and slither beneath a rhododendron bush. Jack’s ID tags are still clutched in the palm of my right hand, imprinting my flesh with his information.

  Tears burst from me unannounced. Everything hits at once—like how my body is filthy and reeks of sweat, how my bare feet are blistered, how the people I love are dead. Scavs found us. They used a bomb to cremate the Underground and those in it. Jack is among the warm snow, drifting, settling on the mountain like mist before a storm. He’s gone. They’re all gone.

  I slide to where I woke up and take Sutton’s backpack from a patch of ivy. The camouflage vinyl is stained with her blood, fragments of what used to be her face. I swallow a mouthful of bile—there’s not enough in my stomach to vomit—and search the bag’s contents for warmer clothes and shoes. Inside are nutrition bars, water, filter, a handgun, ammunition, heat packs, a first-aid kit, matches, cable, and a radio, but no clothes. I curse and press the radio to my ear. Static. The signal is weak.

  Gnats hiss. A whip-poor-will cries from somewhere in the woodsy prison. I hide my head beneath Sutton’s backpack to block the sounds, the inhuman voices that remind me of my seclusion. Nightmare. There’s no one left to keep me alive. All I have is myself.

  “Jack.” His name tastes like ash. I claw at the skin hiding my heart as if to scrape the emptiness from my chest. Jack. Gone. Boyfriend. Dead.

  Stop crying.

  Remember what he taught you. Remember his instructions.

  He is here. Imagine him between those two spindly trees with eyes glistening like blue agate. He wants you to survive. Do it for him. Live and fight to complete the mission.

  Thunder claps in the distance. I must find shelter before the downpour, before my inward storm becomes a hazardous reality. Caves—I’ve seen them on my trek to the Overlook. They aren’t deep, more of an open space with a rock roof, but they’ll keep me dry.

  I fasten Jack’s tags around my neck and stumble up the mountainside. Ash continues to drift through the green canopy, a predecessor of the torrent to come. I gasp for oxygen as the slope steepens to a severe angle. If there are survivors, they’ll try to make contact. I need a working radio. The higher I get, the more of a chance I have at finding a strong signal.

  Skin peels off my feet as I shove myself over a boulder. Each step sends anguish climbing up my body. I whimper and moan. Sweat gathers above my lips, cascades down my naked legs and stings the exposed wounds. Infection will set in unless I’m able to sterilize and bandage the injuries. How much time do I have? A few hours? Both feet are swollen and discharging pus. Bad sign.

  Foliage acts as a shield. I remove the loaded gun from my pack and limp toward a crevice. Cliffs line the gorge, overgrown with brush. I follow the path to a connecting ridge where the earth is level and the air is thin. It won’t be long until rain swallows the mountain—I smell it in the air, sense the building pressure. No matter how far I am from the Scavs and their flyovers, if I’m stuck in a downpour, I will get hypothermia and die.

  The sky darkens, and a light drizzle follows. I run to what was once the Overlook, now a pile of shifted rock, and crawl into the largest cavern. The ceiling is high, but the floor space is narrow, only a few feet in diameter. Plants sprout from the rock interior. Spiders nest in the shadowy corners.

  One of my blisters pops when I pry the sticks and rocks from my feet. I wince and pour antiseptic from the first-aid kit onto the wounds. Bloody goo puddles around my left ankle, trickles out of the cave and into a torrent of rain. I gag at the sight of my soles and nail-less toes and would bandage them immediately if I didn’t have to let the gashes drain and dry first.

  Think of something else.

  Think of your pain.

  Think of how cold and starving you are, how you’ll probably die soon.

  I pull out the radio and adjust its frequency. “Calling all survivors of the Vestige. This is Julie Stryker, Niner-Zulu. I escaped the massacre and am awaiting contact. Do you copy? Over.”

  Static. Silence.

  Nash said rainstorms work as cloaking devices. There could be people searching for me, gathering survivors, trying to regroup. I might be able to make contact with them once the storm passes.

  Breath curls white from my airways. I remove a handful of heat packs from the bag, shake them to activate the warming agent, and stuff them into my t-shirt.

  Jack is here. Imagine his arms looped around your shoulders. He wants you to survive. Do it for him. Live and fight to complete the mission.

  I unwrap a nutrition bar and take small, non-nauseating bites. The flavor is supposed to be apples and cinnamon but tastes more like sawdust. I lean against the cavern’s only wall and hug my knees. Hunger fades. Goosebumps disappear. I’ll live to see tomorrow even though tomorrow holds nothing for me. I’ll live for the people who died because maybe, by some supernatural chance, I will find them along the way, in tough choices and happiness, in every defining victory—I will make them alive.

  A cloud of mist settles over the mountain, swirling through the trees. Jack and I got caught in a storm during one of our morning hikes. He made me wait in the rain until fog lifted into the forest canopy, said the harder the torrent, the more beautiful the aftermath.

  I sure hope he’s right.

  The brush surrounding the cave’s mouth rustles. I reach for my gun the moment Levi emerges and runs into my arms. His fur is matted, plastered with burrs.

  “How’d you find me, huh?” I hug his thick neck and sob when he lies next to me. He’s a piece of Jack. Alive. Ready to be my protector. “I’ll get us someplace safe. I promise.”

  ****

  Four days since the attack.

  Four days of static and silence.

  Four days filled with pain, desperation, and an emptying bag of provisions.

  “If we can find a clear signal, we might be able to get the radio working.” I tie back my tangled hair with thread and latch hold of the branch above me. “I’m almost there, Levi.” My healing feet scrape against the trunk. I tighten the cords crisscrossing my chest and lift myself onto a sturdy limb.

  Levi circles the tree like a shark or watchman. He stares up with eyes stretched wide when a stick drops and lands inches from his furry backside.

  “Oh, you’re fine. Don’t give me that look.” I climb toward the bird-dotted sky, into a crisp breeze. “Not like you could do any better, Mr. No Fingers.”

  The trunk thins into a spindle. I anchor myself to the last supportive limb and unravel a makeshift antenna from my back. It’s constructed using a long stick, metal pieces from Levi’s collar, the underwire of my bra, Band-Aids, salvaged bolts, a rusty coat hanger I found in the woods and cut into measured fragments, and the cable from Sutton’s pack.

  Wind molds the treetop into an arch. My stomach twists, jumps to my throat. I squeal and wrap myself around the trunk. As long as I don’t look down… Dang it, I looked down. Okay. Focus. Use the backpack strap to bind the antenna to the treetop.

  A week ago, Nash and Charlie taught me how to build a receiver. I thought it was useless information, that is, until now. Things I thought mattered so much don’t matter anymore. Words I believed would never bear any relevance in my life now enslave me.

  Levi barks when I reach the ground. He sticks his mouth into my bag and removes a nutrition bar.

  “Stop. Give that back.” I snatch the food from his jaws. “There are only two left. We don’t know how long we’ll be out here. We might starve.”

  He whines. I sigh and remove the packaging. We split the rations, which I know is stupid since he’s a dog and I’m a human, but when I look at him, I see Jack.

  Sharing just makes sense.

  I drink from my canteen and check the handgun’s magazine for the hundredth time. It’s f
ull. The sky is clear. No one’s watching us, yet. They will search the area. We were Jews in Auschwitz, marched to the gas chambers. We were diaries riddled with secrets, tossed into the fire to burn. We were destroyed because we knew too much, so they will look to make sure we are no more.

  Each day I stay in one location is a day closer to being found.

  “Say a prayer.” I attach cable wires to the radio and turn the knob. “If this doesn’t work, we probably won’t live much longer so … let’s hope it works.”

  Static blares from the small speakers and echoes through the woods like a desperate voice calling for help. Then, the frequency clears, dulling static to a distant hum.

  Tears blur the landscape, and the atmosphere suddenly seems lighter. I lean against my dirt-smeared thighs—relief is silly because unless someone survived the attack and is monitoring the frequency, I’m still going to die.

  Levi nudges my hand as if telling me to speak.

  “Calling all survivors of the Vestige. This is Julie Stryker, Niner-Zulu. I escaped the massacre and am awaiting contact. Do you copy? Over.”

  Silence.

  I hold a breath captive and press my lips to the microphone. I’m throwing my last bit of hope into the air—God, please let someone catch it. “Repeat. Calling all survivors of the Vestige. This is Julie Stryker, Niner-Zulu. I escaped the massacre and am awaiting contact. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Roger that. We read you loud and clear, Niner-Zulu.”

  “You hear me…” I clasp a hand over my mouth. Every ounce of fear, anxiety, doubt, and heartbreak inverts, becomes a renaissance voice screeching help will lead you out of the wilderness and then, you will fight like hell.

  “Julie? Do you copy?”

  “Affirmative.” I dry my face and smile. “Charlie, is that you?”

  “Yep,” he says with a laugh. “Blast, Stryker. You had me worried. I should’ve known you’d be alive. A barmy mate like yourself survives everything.”

  “Who’s with you? Where are you located?”

  He hesitates—why did he hesitate? “Standby.”