by Astor Penn
“So,” Aaron cuts into our resting quiet from the dark. He’s been scouting the area, or so he says. “How long had the van been following you?”
Immediately my stomach clenches, and I deny it, but Aaron’s face hardens. When I look at Bryant, his is carefully blank.
“How do you know they weren’t following you? Or her?” I simultaneously want to push her off of me and bring her closer. I’m ready to grab my bag and go, but the heavy meal sits sluggish in my stomach. I feel nauseous.
“We weren’t walking like the living dead out there,” Aaron snaps. “Were you aware of anything? We saw you from the woods, walking around on the road dazed with a knife in your hand. We thought you were suicidal.”
“If they were planning on encountering a group, there would have been a second van,” Bryant says quietly, smoothing a hand over Poppy’s hair.
“I was hunting. I’d been in the woods, covered, up until then. There’s no way they were tracking me.” But the nauseous feeling grows. I barely remember the past week at all. I didn’t have much in the way of food or water, and it made it hard to concentrate.
“Is your idea of hunting lumbering around with a knife out like a bad slasher film? We saw you, then we saw the van, inching its way toward you. And you didn’t even notice it until it was almost too late. Forgive me if I think it’s possible you didn’t notice it before.”
“No.” I force the burn in my eyes away. “I may have been tired, but I wasn’t that far gone. I promise it wasn’t—”
My fault. But it was. Regardless of whether they were tracking me or not, it was me they saw first, and I led them in the right direction. It could have been the other direction, and another little girl or angry teenage boy, but it wasn’t. It changed the course for these people.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. It’s enough to relax the tension between us, but only marginally. “No one was seriously hurt, right?”
“No.” Aaron rolls his eyes as if I’m the childish one. “Now they just know approximately where we are and that there are enough of us worth pursuing.”
“Why would they? Five people isn’t exactly a huge number.” An earlier conversation floats to the surface; something about keeping people alive long enough for something.
“You’ve seen the collection method of so-called biohazard vans before?” Bryant asks gently.
“Yes.” The roundup and the gunshots. I didn’t move for two days the first time I witnessed one; too scared, too shocked to move, and I was so sure they’d find me. They didn’t that time, or the next when I ran faster than I ever had.
“There are fewer and fewer large groups left to deal with like that. Now it seems like they prefer to snatch small groups or solitary people and keep them alive, from what we’ve seen in recent weeks.”
“And you think they’re experimenting on people? Where? What cities are still left standing and functional?” The hazmats are organized by someone—some last government standing, but it just seems so ridiculous to think they have a stronghold left with metal tables and restraints. “And for what? A cure?”
I say this indignantly, but the looks on their faces stop me. “You’re joking. There is no such thing.”
“Yet. That’s why they’re taking people.”
Now Bryant sounds like the childish one; one day, if a cure comes to be, I’m sure that many more will be gone. I’m sure that most of us will be gone. Cures for a worldwide epidemic of catastrophic proportions take years to make. They don’t happen in a matter of months. If they take people now, surely none of them will live to see the cure, but die for the sake of others. Well, I guess there are worse ways to go. If only I could be sure that’s what they were doing. I’m still not convinced.
“What proof do you have?” I ask finally. Watching them load one or two people off the roads is one thing, but they could be doing anything with them. They could be feeding them, sheltering them, just like they say they are.
If only I could convince myself of it.
They’re quiet for a minute, Aaron never breaking eye contact and Bryant peering into his empty can.
“I’ve seen one of the camps,” Bryant says finally, stirring at nothing inside his can. “Before I found my way to that group, I was traveling with my brother. We didn’t know what it was; it was so quiet that we stumbled upon it by complete accident during the day, but the guards they had stationed around it gave it away before we got too close. More of them on the inside than the outside, you see, and the few people that we could see inside, well, they didn’t look good.
“The silence was uncanny. We knew whatever it was going on inside, it wasn’t anything good or healthy. There was… a lot of smoke. And stench. We thought it was a death camp, but the people we could see were dressed like it was a work camp—all wearing the same kind of jumpsuit, and there was no bias. Men, women, children. They were all there.”
Silence reigns. I’m glad Poppy is asleep despite her feigned maturity, and reflex demands I clutch at the girl in my lap a little more tightly.
“And while they were burning something of substantial waste, I don’t think it was bodies. I think it was some kind of other biological waste. Live virus, maybe.”
The last embers of our fire crack and die. The small thing was lit only to cook food, and now that it’s gone we feel the cool breeze of a night in high altitude settle in to smother us. It’s too risky to leave one lit overnight or for any substantial period of time. There are other things in the woods besides hazmats and some of them far worse.
“I don’t think it’s the only one of its kind. I think there must be several camps like this, based on the frequency of the vans despite our movement south.”
“But that’s not all we learned from this evening, was it?” the younger man pipes up, swinging the handle of a switchblade between his fingers. Fool. He’s going to lose a finger like that. Thinks he’s so tough. “We’re now probably the biggest target they have in this immediate area, thanks to her.”
I’m torn between Shut up and What exactly do you mean? I have to settle on the latter. “How could it possibly matter?” How could he possibly place this all on me? “Surely there are others in the area. Why would they focus on us?”
“Because our group is primarily composed of members under the age of twenty,” Aaron says, standing to his full height over me. “Didn’t you notice? They may have been shooting mostly tranqs at us, but not exclusively. There were gunshots too.”
I think back to the confrontation hours previous: did I hear gunfire? Yes. Certainly. There were two kinds of explosions, one louder than the other, and the shots near me didn’t blow a hole in trees like they seemed to in other places. Places where Bryant was running.
“They were firing bullets at you?” I ask him softly in remorse. For this, I am guilty. He was carrying a child, after all.
He nods. “There were bullets. Not many. Maybe more to warn us than anything else.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. They want young people more than anyone else.” Aaron gestures with his hands violently, pointing mainly at Poppy. “We’re more resilient at our age. They want to take us and force their experimental medications on us for the sake of humankind.”
“That’s ridiculous.” There’s more bite than bark behind my voice for once. “What are they going to do with someone like Poppy? Coddle her? No chance. She wouldn’t last a day in those camps.”
“Poppy survived the loss of both her parents. What have you done, Princess? Did you ride the evacuation bus out of your fancy school? Did they make you bagged lunches for your field trip?”
I’m so angry, that in a split second I freeze over. When I speak, it’s nothing but chill to the bone. “You don’t know a thing about it.”
I could tell them about climbing over bodies and dodging cars, watching people and their privileged pets being trampled. The empty aisles of grocery stores and pharmacies, or the concentrated screams of a city block when a jumper landed. I could tell them
, but I don’t say a word.
“It’s getting colder. The days. Already,” Bryant waxes rather poetic. “You should think about heading south too. It’s where anyone without sufficient shelter will be going. Possibly your family too.”
He doesn’t need to tell me that he thinks I’ll find only heartache in the west, but really, he should know better. Heartache will be found anywhere.
“What happened to your brother?” Sometimes the best approach to heartache is to remind others of theirs, just to forget about yours.
He smiles, like he’s been waiting to answer this question. “It’s funny, actually. We made it past that camp, and it was just a few short days later that we found the outskirts of the next group. Huge group. Probably the last of its size in the country. They had delegations for things—the cooking group, the scouting group, the hunting group. The medical group.
“You see, my brother suffered from an inner-ear disease. It came and went in severity, but overall he struggled with balance and coordination on a daily basis. You can probably guess what happened; their scouting and security group took one look at him and shot him before we had a chance to explain.”
Stage one of the contagion was impaired motor skills and speech. Some people jokingly referred to it as the living dead syndrome from the way people shambled about.
“They nearly got me too. I ran and hid before they did, and I hid until they moved far enough away from the exposed and supposedly contaminated body. Then I buried my brother and waited to find the men that so unjustly killed him. They didn’t recognize me, of course, and by the time we met up again, I should have been immobile from the virus. Their so-called group of medical professionals cleared me, and I was allowed to stay, mostly in penance for their crimes against my brother, I think. Had to give an oral history when I was let in. They were sorry. Not sorry enough.”
I let a moment of silence pass for his fallen brother. Then, “You were stupid.”
I feel like an asshole, but I go on. “What were you doing looking for other people, who were obviously going to make those kind of assumptions about your brother? You should have stayed clear of anyone else.”
If I expect to rise him to anger, it never happens, but I suppose after admitting that he let his brother’s executioners go, I shouldn’t be surprised. Instead he calmly studies me.
“You can’t make it far enough on your own.”
But I’ll try anyway.
Chapter 4
DEEP SLEEP is as foreign to me as most languages or places are; dreams are fleeting thoughts I can’t hold onto, and true rest eludes like any certainty does. It happens like any time lapse—no conscious nature of it, and it ends with the same effect. One moment I’m cautiously watching Aaron, and Bryant too to some extent, while sitting on my bag of few valuables like a hen on her eggs; the next my eyes are shut and I’ve nearly forgotten everything, including where I am and what has happened.
My girl’s head is still in my lap, although she’s slid down my body and is no longer keeping me warm. Sheltered from most of the breeze by the bulk of a tree trunk, I cower against her, attempting to wrap my blanket around both of us.
Sometime after the fire dies, then the conversation, I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I want to let myself sleep, but the knowledge that Aaron sits not far from me while Bryant takes watch is of little comfort. My skin crawls on edge, and yet it’s not enough to keep me focused.
There’s no deep rest, just the illusion of it. I slept before from moment to moment, waking up and making a move. Now when I close my eyes and wake up, it feels like a year has passed, or maybe I’ve slept through fall and into winter.
I wake up; it’s cold. Almost too cold to move my stiff muscles. I know I have to because something’s missing—or, not something, someone. Someone is missing. A short glance to my right and I see a beautiful child with an orange halo and a lost-looking boy farther afield.
There’s a girl missing. Not a girl, a wild thing. Wild things belong in the woods, and yet I push myself to my feet to follow. Wild things can’t, or shouldn’t, be tamed, but I feel responsible for this one.
And she has my blanket. And my bag, I realize.
Now I’m more alert, because moving is life, but moving is dictated by my supplies and rations and my blanket. She’s left me with nothing. Fortunately, her legs must feel like jelly at best, so she can’t be far.
Sparing a glance for Bryant, unseen, I walk into the night, unarmed and without any light. There’s nothing to be heard—no foot stirring the fallen leaves, no nocturnal beasts hunting in the night. I circle the camp, waiting. It does no good to arbitrary pick a direction when I’m still tired and sore. I wait.
It’s a tickle on my ears—if I listen hard enough, maybe I hear ragged breath and a quick heartbeat, but what I definitely hear is a collision into crunching earth and a short, suppressed yell.
When I find her, there are bits of golden and brown flakes in her hair to match the muddied appearance of her skin. Untamed and unsung. She is without a doubt the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I wish I could tell her so, but I’m not sure I’d retain my hand.
“You’re holding that knife all wrong,” I say. Like I knew how to hold a knife before all this; maybe now I still hold it wrong, but I know the way she’s got it in her hand is the easiest way to lose it. Once any pressure is applied against it, it’s going to slip out from right between her fingers.
As light as my sleep felt, she must have some moves if she was able to maneuver that knife from under my belt without waking me.
She doesn’t answer me, instead gripping the knife tighter and raising it in front of her face.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, realizing exactly who I sound like, “but I will if I have to. You’ve taken my things, and I can’t let you take them. I’m sorry.”
Still no response from her. She doesn’t move, just stays in a crouched position ready to spring at me if I get too close, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me except maybe I’m too tired to think rationally, but I keep taking baby steps forward.
“I know you can talk just fine. I remember quite vividly the mouth on you.” I try to keep my voice light and easy, hands up innocently.
“Fuck off.”
“Attagirl.” I smile. “Look, you got shot with some kind of tranquilizer, and I helped you. Remember? Those other people helped you too. If you’re hungry, they can feed you. I don’t have much in that bag, so it won’t get you far. Just—please—”
Time to switch tactics; this is getting me nowhere but one step closer to being stabbed.
“Please, there’s a locket in there from my grandmother. It’s the only thing I have left of her. At least let me get that.” I stretch open a hand, palm up.
“You’re a fucking liar,” she hisses back at me. “There’s no personal items in here. I’ve already looked through everything.”
I freeze; she’s right, of course. I don’t have any personal items because I didn’t have time to take any while evacuating the city. Nothing I have now is my own—not the knife or the bag or the clothes on my back.
“Worth a shot.” I shrug. She’s still eyeing me up, but the knife is slowly inching its way down.
Neither of us will look away. It’s similar to my standoff with Aaron, but also different somehow. Charged with a different kind of energy, and despite being the shorthanded one, I don’t feel afraid.
Now. The knife is low enough that I spring for her wrist. She’s still sluggish from the drugs working their way out of her system, expedited by Bryant’s IV, no doubt, but still present enough that I doubt I’m getting the full effect of her usual strength. She swipes at me, low enough I can dodge it fairly easily, but when she comes back around with it she leaves a long, but from what I can tell from the feel of it, shallow gash in my forearm.
She doesn’t have time to try again, because I’ve got the hand pinned, and even though it cuts into my palm in what’s probably a worse wound than my
arm, when I push the knife up, it slides out easily from her hand into mine.
Snarling, she bites down into my shoulder. Hard. I shout—choking it off as much as possible to avoid attention—but knock at her chest with the butt of the knife handle hard enough to push her back.
We size each other up for a short moment more before she turns and tries to run with my bag and the rest of my things. Sinking one foot back, I take a deep breath, ignore my pounding heart, and aim. Fire.
The knife wedges itself in a tree directly next to the fleeing girl. Startled, she stumbles a bit. On more stable legs, she would be able to keep running. On unsteady legs, she falls face-first and eats dirt. I almost grin.
Before she can get up on her feet again, I plant a foot in her lower back to keep her steady while I pry the straps of my backpack off her arms. She growls at me with a mouthful of dirt and leaves.
Swinging the bag on my back and simultaneously stepping off her, I present the only choice. “Look, you can wander off by yourself and starve if you want, but I’m going back to that camp so I can weasel at least breakfast out of them before I hightail it. You wanna join me or what?”
She’s not coming with me. This is a waste of breath.
“I’m not staying with them, and I’m not saying you should either, but I think we both could use the meal, and they can provide us with that. Then we’ll both get out of here. If you need help, I can get you into the next town to scavenge some supplies for yourself.”
She won’t get far without them. Still, she doesn’t move or blink or do anything but try and stare me down from her pixie-like stature. Shrugging, I take one step backward, then another. It’d be suicidal to turn my back on her; we both know it.
“If I was carrying, you’d be showing symptoms by now. Same for them.”
Just when I think there’s an acceptable distance between us to turn around and run back to the camp, preferably before Bryant realizes I’m gone, I hear her say more words strung together than all her other words combined before.
