Every Commune was responsible for establishing and maintaining their own set of morse lines. And every Commune shared a set of styles in common: there was the solid morse line, which connected the Communes, and then the dash-dot-dot shaped morse line, which led to different food markets. Declan searched for the morse line that would take them to their dwellings. When he found what he was looking for, he let out a huge breath, motioning toward their home. Their dwelling was in the same building, an ancient concrete box layered with centuries of resin to protect it from the caustic salts.
Sammi tugged his arm, pulling his attention back. His heart thumped in his chest as the hurried sound of footsteps surrounded them. His breathing stopped. Sammi stopped breathing, too, and he wondered if she might scream.
“They know we’re here,” he whispered. Sammi gripped his hand, and Declan braced himself. Footsteps were closing in. He blinked down at the morse line, and stepped in the direction of their building. His vision had blurred, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Sammi followed, tightening her fingers around his. He shook his head, bringing some needed clarity. They pushed farther, faster, with each step. Beyond the fog, the footsteps paced theirs, moving closer, and stomping the ground without any care of being heard. The Outsiders were making themselves known.
Sammi stopped, then jerked his arm, pulling him to his knees. He wrestled with the injury to his leg, and bit his lip, trying to hold his tongue. She pointed to the space between the ground and the fog, and then leaned forward. His eyes followed Sammi as long strands of her red hair splashed over the stony road. She moved her ear nearer to the ground, as though secrets were being whispered only to her. But she wasn’t listening to anything. Declan understood what she was doing, and knelt closer to the stony path. He leaned into the ground, feeling the wet gritty surface on his palms and cheek. He could see in every direction; there was terrific visibility. Sammi pinched him, and pointed to their left. It was there that he saw two sets of padded coverall shoes. He turned back in the other direction, and found another set of coverall shoes. The shoes were from their Commune—not from Outsiders. Though his arms were still trembling, he let out a sigh. They were safe—for now, anyway.
5
Sammi watched as the corners of Declan’s mouth curved up in a smile, hesitant and slow at first, but then broad and relieved. He stabbed the fog with his finger, pointing to the padded coverall shoes a few hands away. She pressed against wet pebbly stones, keeping her eyes beneath the gray canopy, and waited to see if the shoes were going to move. They were just like the ones that she wore; just like the shoes that everyone in their Commune wore. Before she could say anything, Declan was already on his feet.
Standing, she suddenly felt tired of hiding, and stepped forward into the fog where their adversaries waited. Declan followed her, taking hold of her arm.
“Wish we had some tether straps,” he mumbled jokingly. She nodded, and then locked her hand in his.
“And miss this?” she answered, lifting their hands between them.
“How convenient!” a familiar voice rang out. “Look at the two of you together like this.” At once, unease took Sammi’s attention.
Do we have time to run? she wondered. But they were in a light patch of fog now. The heavier fog was behind them, and they now had twelve, or maybe fifteen, hands of sight. And she knew the voice. The sound of it filled her with a sickening dread. If another heavy patch came, she decided they’d run.
From the fog stepped Harold Belker and his two sidekicks, Peter and Richie. Sammi’s hands grew clammy, and her heart leaped into her throat. More thoughts of hiding and escape consumed her; they needed to run. She didn’t care about the patchiness of the fog, or that pockets of gray might be hiding Outsiders. There was danger here, vileness, and they needed to be somewhere else.
She glimpsed Declan’s face: his expression remained the same, unchanged by their new circumstance. He didn’t know of the threats Harold had made toward her, toward them. He didn’t know that Harold wanted her. Sammi knew the danger, though, and she was afraid for the both of them.
Harold curled a nubby finger, and bounced it in a mock wave. She felt a sickness inside her, as if all the places that Harold had ever put his hands and fingers became poison, burning her, like the violations they were.
“You missed the last class before the End of Gray Skies,” Declan said, turning an inquiring expression.
“Don’t think we missed much of anything,” Harold began. He moved to within an arm’s length of Sammi, and raised his nose up in the air, smelling her. “Nope, nothing, yet,” he finished, and snorted a piggy laugh. Richie and Peter joined in. Declan’s expression turned to confusion as he glanced back and forth between the boys.
“We need to get going,” Sammi interrupted, and grabbed Declan’s hand, stepping to the edge of the pocket of fog. Harold’s sneer and laughter vanished, and he jumped in front of Sammi, blocking their exit. Harold pushed his body closer until his face and piggy nose were within a hand of hers. She could smell his foul breath and feel the warm touch of it on her face. His closeness turned her stomach. She tried to step back, away from him. But fear played a coy joke, leaving her motionless, unable to move.
She felt Declan loosen his grip on her hand and step in front of Harold. Panic took her breath. Before she could stop Declan, Harold surprised her by lifting his hands and backing away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Declan shouted. His tone sounded alarmed, but baffled.
Harold lifted his hands, palms up, and sneered, “Just didn’t want you two to leave… not until you saw my catch, is all.”
“Your catch?” Declan asked, his voice calmer. Before Declan continued, Harold motioned to Richie and Peter.
The boys weren’t alone, and what Sammi saw next made her knees go weak and her heart feel heavy. She reached for Declan’s hand, clutching at the air before finally closing her fingers on his. As if on cue, Peter and Richie pulled three feral cats from over their shoulders, dropping them on the ground, lifeless. The boys had missed Ms. Gilly’s class in favor of trapping wild cats. Declan stepped closer. While his expression remained cautious, Sammi could see that he was impressed by what was laid at their feet. Kneeling, Declan stroked the fur of the cat closest to them. Their coats were as black as writing stones, but they held a luster that gleamed in the gray light around them.
Sammi covered her mouth, then gasped when she saw the milky white fur on the feet of the cat nearest them. While all feral cats wore a similar coat, this one had two white paws. He was different, like she was. A tear stabbed at her eye, and she was quick to swipe it away before Harold noticed. She loved the wild cats and, against the Commune rules, she’d often carried leftover protein crackers in her pockets, and tried to lure them close enough to touch.
With the fog, nobody knew how close the cats actually were. While hunting without permission was prohibited, there were still those in the Commune who’d maintained a hunting tradition, permission or not. Hunting had been handed down over many generations, as was smoking the catch, and drying the fur, and then sharing, and sometimes trading the meat and pelts with other members in the Commune.
Sammi recalled the day that she’d found the feral cat colony. While on the path to school, she’d been lured in by the mews that had come from the fog. For weeks, she’d made small piles of protein cracker crumbs, placing them just a dozen hands from the morse lines. Declan told her that she was wasting time, and that she was squandering good food. She ignored him. Hearing the feral cats meow, she’d told him that she also heard the mewling cries of younger cats, too. Weeks passed without her seeing anything, but the food was gone; it was always gone.
By then, Declan had joined in the effort, and that day he brought with him a few protein crackers to share. Socks was the first feral cat to break from the fog’s cover. He’d appeared to them out of hiding, sidestepping as he approached, and keeping his emerald green eyes locked with Sammi’s. A petite cat, Socks st
retched his neck and, with caution, gently took the food from Sammi’s fingers. It wasn’t long before Socks was a regular stop on their walks to and from school. He’d meet them near the old theater, purring and darting figure eights between their legs. Socks had been a feral cat, but had become their cat.
Now here he was, dead. Socks had been caught by the same hands that had tortured Sammi. Declan looked back to Sammi, his expression slack, but his lips pressed with anger.
Just then, Socks moved his leg, ever so slightly, reaching to place his forepaw on Declan’s hand. Sammi’s heart stopped. Socks was alive! One of Socks’s eyes stayed closed; a large swell pushed from behind his eyelid. His other eye was just a narrow slit, but the familiar green stared back at her. Blood coated the fur around his ears and head, some of it still bright and fresh. Socks was alive, and Sammi felt helpless. She hated that, and it killed her a little inside.
Socks tried to mew, and a raspy sound broke the air. Alerted by Socks’s meow, Harold stood high on his toes and crashed down with his club, hitting Socks with a grisly thud. As Declan fell backward, Sammi screamed for Harold to stop. Tears blurred and twisted the image in front of her. The guttural sound of Harold’s club striking the cat filled her ears. She dropped to her knees, trying to protect the cat. Harold’s arm was in the air again, the sweat of an anxious hunter dripping from his brow.
“Thought we’d killed that one,” he said. He spoke in a strong but breathless voice as his club connected again. The strike of Harold’s weapon sent a spray of blood across Sammi’s coveralls, and adorned her face with bright crimson freckles. The touch of the warm droplets on her skin left Sammi feeling queasy and defeated. She felt Declan grabbing at her, trying to pull her away from Socks. She was only vaguely aware of Declan’s hold, as her eyes stayed locked on Socks. She screamed for Harold to stop, but it was too late: Socks was dead.
When Harold’s bloodied club stayed down, she heard the snorting of his piggy laugh, and the sniggering exchange of satisfaction between the boys. Before Sammi could control it, the anger welled up inside her, and then erupted for what they’d done to her cat. Sammi leaped to her feet and clawed at the smallest of the three boys.
Richie never saw her coming. Shock replaced the mocking smile on his gaunt face. A torrent of anger spewed from her body with each throw of her arms. His thin frame stumbled backward in retreat, while he tried his best to cover his head amid the blows that Sammi threw. When there was enough of his hair in her grip, she closed her fingers in a balled fist and pulled his head down, throwing her other arm in a wide swing. She felt the crunch of his nose against her knuckles, and the sound encouraged her. Richie let out a childlike cry. He jabbed one of his arms aimlessly forward in a feeble attempt to defend himself. Sammi had forgotten about Declan and Socks; she knew only that she wanted to hurt the boy who was backing away from her. The realization of what she’d witnessed consumed her. She was crying, and only when she saw the blood on her fist did her strength fade.
A massive blow struck her in the back, throwing her forward. Against her will, she spat out all the air from her lungs. Her shoulders and back cramped, and writhing in pain, she was certain that she’d soon join Socks in death. Bright pin-lights danced in her eyes, and the images in front of her went pale and dim. She dropped to her knees and gasped absently at the air, struggling to fill her lungs with the stale salt that she so loathed. Sammi heard Declan yelling at Harold, and then turned her head in time to see that Declan’s feet were surrounded. Harold was swinging his club again, only this time it wasn’t Socks that he was aiming for. Sammi heard another sickening thud, and then watched as Declan fell to his knees next to her, gripping at his middle, his mouth furiously trying to pull in the same foul air.
By then, Sammi had sucked in enough to douse the stray pin-lights, and stood up just in time to see Harold’s club held high above them. He was going to strike Declan. And unlike the first blow, his next was intended to hurt Declan badly.
“Wait!” Sammi coughed out, and then leaped in front of Harold. Her eyes darted to the club hanging above her, and to the jealous rage in Harold’s eyes.
He’s going to swing the club anyway, she thought. He’s not done killing today.
Harold paused briefly, and then raised his club higher, ready to strike. Still gasping, Sammi swung her leg in a clumsy motion, and connected her shin with his groin. She punched with her leg again until Harold collapsed, falling to his knees. Her strength was exhausted, but she planted her legs and readied herself for the other boys. Richie and Peter took a step back. Their faces were filled with shock and uncertainty. They huddled together, as though conferring over what to do next.
Sammi heard Declan heaving, and then saw him limp forward. He moved only a few meager steps, but it was enough for Sammi to take hold of his hand and lead him into the fog.
Shock and fear crippled their steps. But as their distance from Harold grew, so did their confidence. Sammi kept her head down, with her eyes fixed to her feet, following the morse lines toward their dwellings. Declan’s hand fell from hers as he stumbled to the ground. He cried out, having twisted his bad knee, and let out a grunt when he rolled to the ground.
“We’ve got to run, Declan!” Sammi spat under her breath, trying to stay hidden. Gray mist filled the space around them. She gripped his outstretched hand; her arm strained against Declan’s weight, almost causing her to stumble as well. She pulled until she felt him behind her again, matching her pace, step for step. The fog was thicker now, and when she looked back, she saw only Declan’s fingers in her hand, bobbing in and out of the fog. She picked up her feet, and hastened their pace.
Two, maybe three hands, she thought. We’re safer with more gray now. They ran blindly, deeper into the fog. She fed on the fear and adrenaline, which carried them for another minute until they had to stop.
Declan tripped and rolled onto his back, heaving. Spittle mixed with blood dripped from his mouth and lay on his chin. His upturned face also revealed a bloodied nose and a swollen eye. Sammi dropped down next to him and took his face in her hands, lightly touching where he’d been hit as though she could wipe away the hurt.
“Oh, Declan,” she said, concerned by what she saw.
“I’ll be fine. I don’t know what got into Harold, but we need to go. I’m not sure how much I can run, though.”
Declan wiped some of the cat’s blood from Sammi’s face, then rested his hand on her back. “He hit you hard, Sammi. Really hard. Are you hurt?”
Her back ached, but she thought that she would be okay. She shook her head, and then put her hand on his knee. It was swollen and hot; worse than she imagined it might be.
When they’d caught their breath, Sammi crawled over the pavement to find the morse lines, and to try and figure out where they were. She put her hands against the white paint, feeling the cool smoothness. Thousands of feet had followed this path, passing over it with padded coverall shoes until the morse lines had worn smooth. Her fingers stopped when she came across markings that felt irregular. While the shapes were whole, a few in the pattern were oblong, and torn along the bottom edges.
“I know where we are,” she said, elated by her find. “You have to trust me.”
Declan got to his feet. He dropped his chin with a short nod and took her hand. She led them off the path, away from the morse lines, and into a complete whiteout. There were no morse lines; nothing but the gray mist.
Declan called out quietly to object to the direction that they were moving, but then the sound of Harold and the boys thrummed from behind, growing louder. Declan’s hand became lighter in Sammi’s. He followed her without another word. Sammi’s heart filled and lifted, knowing Declan had put his trust in her, completely.
After counting nearly forty long steps, Sammi stretched her arms out in front of her. They were near the old theater; she had to be careful so that they wouldn’t run into the wall of the building. Fifty long steps from the morse line, fifty reaches of her legs, perpendicular to
their daily path to and from school. She’d found the building a year earlier after following the mews of a cat. Sammi rubbed the spot on her head where she’d banged it when she stepped headlong into the coarse wall the year before. Shaking her head, amused, she felt the raised and tattered scar just under her hairline. After that, she’d visited the theater dozens of times, and knew the exact number of steps from the path to the entrance.
Sammi’s hands landed flat against the wall. She pressed her palms against the damp decay of brittle mortar and aged brick, feeling her way.
“We’re here,” she exclaimed.
“Where exactly is here?” Declan asked. “Is it safe?”
“This is where Socks came from,” she answered, pointing to the building. “It’s the old theater.”
Declan held his hand up and turned to listen. They could still hear Harold and the other boys, but their footsteps were distant. He cringed when Sammi touched the swelling above his eye.
“Oh, Declan, your eye is purple!”
“I’m fine,” he breathed, and turned toward the building. With an eager smile, he added, “Want to go inside?”
On Sammi’s many visits she’d never gone inside, but now she gave Declan a quick nod and moved along the wall, following it around until they found an opening. It was just a hole that might have once been a door, now caved in by years of neglect. They crawled through the narrow space.
The dirt beneath their hands and knees felt wet, but not stony. Surprise caught Sammi when she realized that it was actual dirt, not crumbling pavement or crushed building stone. Sammi gripped a handful and held it up to her nose, smiling. The dirt felt crisp and soothing on her skin. It smelled earthy.
“Ever seen anything like that before?” Declan asked, bringing his bloodied nose to her hand. He tried sniffing the dirt, but shook his head—his sense of smell had been crippled by the beating.
“On the farming floors, yeah, but this is different,” she marveled.
Endure: Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2 (Caustic) Page 5
