The Deadly Nightshade

by Justine Ashford

  What is this kid’s fascination with me? He knows I don’t give a crap about his backstory, so why does he give a crap about mine? But considering there’s no other way to pass the time other than playing the quiet game, which I know he wouldn’t be keen on doing, I agree to answer his stupid inquiries.

  I expect him to take a while to come up with the questions, but he begins immediately, leading me to believe he has been preparing for this since I agreed to his interrogation last night. He repositions himself so that he sits cross-legged in front of me, his hands folded in his lap and a delighted expression like that of a schoolgirl at her first sleepover on his face.

  “Alright,” he says, “let’s start with an easy one. How old are you?”

  I realize immediately what a mistake it was to agree to this; if I’m reluctant to even reveal something as simple as my age, how am I supposed to answer real personal questions? But I’m too proud to go back on our deal, so after a moment’s hesitation I tell him I am nineteen.

  “Huh, two years older than me and ten times more badass. That doesn’t make me feel bad about myself at all . . . So where did you used to live—you know, before all of this?”

  Hm, simple enough, not too personal. I’ll accept it. “You mean my accent hasn’t given me away? New York—or what used to be New York.” I recall the glorious city for a moment, its towering skyscrapers, its glistening glass buildings, its bustling streets filled with people from all walks of life. The City that Never Sleeps, they used to call it—and now it sleeps eternally.

  “Look at that!” he laughs. “We were practically neighbors! You know, it really is a small world.” Then, with a mischievous glint appearing in his blue eyes, he adds, “Alright, enough easy ones. Now tell me, Nightshade, what’s your real name?”

  I shake my head. “Think of another one.”

  “Oh, come on!” he groans. “Alright, you know what, fine. Tell me this then: how did you get your new name? Why are you called Nightshade?”

  “Next question.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  Connor emits a prolonged sigh. I can tell I am irritating him with my lack of cooperation, but I don’t care. My old name died with the old me years ago. I am Nightshade now, and it doesn’t matter how I became her or who I was before she existed.

  “How many people have you killed?” he asks finally. “You can answer that one, can’t you?”

  For the first time since this conversation began, I feel the need to look away. Focusing my attention on the patch of grass beside me, I run my fingers through it absentmindedly. I find myself unable to answer Connor’s question for a long while—so long, in fact, that he opens his mouth to repeat it.

  “More than anyone should ever have to to survive,” I murmur as I rip the thin blades of grass from the dirt and release them, watching them flutter back to the ground.

  Connor is silent for a long time—longer than he has ever been for the entire time I have known him. I guess he’s finally realized what I truly am—a killer, an assassin, a monster. It’s about time. When he speaks again, his voice is much more hollow. “How did you end up on your own? Or were you always by yourself?”

  “My mother died in the bombings. She was a nurse at Columbia Medical Center, so she was one of the first to go. My father had begged her not to go into work that day, what with the threats and all, but she wouldn’t hear it—felt it was her duty not to abandon her patients, apparently. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for letting her go.

  “My father and I, on the other hand, we were lucky—we were on a camping trip upstate when it started, so we managed to avoid getting hit. I was with him for a little more than two years after everything fell apart. He’s the only reason I’m alive, really. After it all went down, we found this weapons shop in some shitty little town and loaded up—that’s where I got these babies,” I say, gesturing to my katanas and knife belt. “Then we pretty much just drove until our car ran out of fuel. We settled down in a little storehouse for a couple years, until the threat of gangs drove us out. After that he moved us into this abandoned insane asylum that turned out not to be as abandoned as we originally thought. He, uh, he didn’t make it.”

  Suddenly I find that I have actually said too much—more than I would have cared to reveal about myself. I can tell Connor doesn’t know how to respond, but I do not look at him, choosing instead to place all the grass I have pulled out of the ground into a neat pile.

  “Well, I can see I’ve lightened the mood,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Okay, last question. This one isn’t as morbid as the last two, I promise. What’s your favorite book?”

  I think for a moment, recalling every book my father ever made me read. Although I loved each one of them for some reason or another, one title in particular comes to mind. “A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens,” I say. “Ever read it?”

  He shakes his head.

  “It’s a really great book. When my father was alive—before we moved to the asylum—he would go out and bring me back books to read, said it would keep my mind sharp. He loved the classics, so I ended up with a lot of Hugo and Brontë and Austin and Hemingway. But for some reason A Tale of Two Cities was always my go-to novel. I don’t know why, really—maybe because it’s about how the whole world goes kind of crazy, like ours did, and it’s all about rebirth and how people can change for the better despite the chaos. I don’t know. It’s just nice to know that the world can turn you into one thing but that doesn’t mean you have to be like that forever.”

  “And do you like what this world has turned you into?”

  I stare at Connor for a long time, and for the first time since I met him I find him beautiful—not in a romantic way, but a sad kind of beautiful. His sickly ashen skin and scrawny body not only serve as a grim reminder of his former days of hunger, but also as evidence of his ability to survive on his own in the face of starvation. His large blue eyes, which shine with fire despite the misfortunes he has lived through, are proof of his resilience and stubbornness even toward death. We sit on that bank together, two tragic souls lost in a world we were not born into and have learned to navigate alone up until now. For the first time, I am thankful that he found me.

  “I’ve already answered your five questions,” I say. “That’s one for another day.”

  Chapter 17

  We sit in that spot for a while longer to allow ample time for prey to fall into our traps. After Connor has made sure to lick every last remnant of pineapple juice from his fingertips, he lies back on a bed of dead leaves with his arms folded behind his head and stares up at the sky. I sit a few feet away, watching his eyelids flutter and fight to stay open. He appears only a few seconds from dozing off, so I pick a twig off the ground and toss it at his face. My projectile hits him right between the eyes, successfully startling him back to consciousness. Dazed and unsure of what just happened, he jumps up in alarm, looking around wildly, and I am forced to stifle my laughter. Realizing what I have done, he glowers at me.

  “Good, you’re up,” I say. “We ought to get moving. Let’s check the snares to see if we’ve caught anything.”

  “See, Nightshade, that’s your problem,” he says, laying back down. “Everything with you is get on the road, never stop moving, don’t settle in one place for too long. You need to learn to be patient, to slow down, to relax and take in the scenery every once in a while—there isn’t much else to do nowadays.”

  “Well my way of doing things has kept me alive on my own for four years now, so . . .”

  “Touché. But, then again, what’s the point of surviving if you can’t even enjoy it?”

  “I enjoy it,” I say.

  Still eager to leave, I insist we check the traps. After some mild protesting, Connor grudgingly gets back on his feet and we head for the locations of our snares. Upon reaching the first, we are greeted with a fat squirrel struggling wildly to free itself from o
ur noose.

  “Look at that,” I say. “You’ve already caught something. See how easy it is?”

  “So this is all there is to it? You just set up a trap, wait a while, and hope something happens to fall for it?”

  “I never said it was a science. But yeah, all that’s left to do now is kill it.”

  He grimaces. “Oh, God, do I really have to?”

  “Yes, Connor, that’s kind of necessary.”

  His expression changes to one of absolute pain. “But it has fur and paws and whiskers. I can’t kill that—look how cute it is.”

  “Yeah, it is cute, and it’s also delicious and I intend to eat it.”

  “Come on, didn’t you ever have a pet rabbit or hamster or something?”

  I sigh in exasperation, then grab the thrashing squirrel and remove the noose from its torso, holding it tightly so it can’t wriggle free. “Yeah, I had a gerbil when I was seven, but that doesn’t mean I would rather go hungry than eat one of his cousins.” With one quick flick of the wrist I snap the animal’s neck. Its body goes limp in my hands. Connor shudders, but says nothing.

  “Honestly, Connor,” I scold, tying the dead squirrel to my belt for later, “you act like you’ve never killed anything in your life.”

  He looks at me gravely, and I realize from his measured stare that the killing of that squirrel has affected him; it’s funny—he watched me dispatch five men and that was just peachy, but the second I break one squirrel’s neck suddenly I’m a villain.

  “That’s because I haven’t.”

  The words sound so innocent as they flow from his mouth. He is so pure, so uncontaminated, so untouched by this world that grabs at everyone it meets with its grimy black hands until they cannot scrub the dirt from their face or the blood from their skin. I have been corrupted, there is no doubt about that; I was nothing more than a guiltless seedling when the War commenced, but I have germinated under the present conditions and blossomed into something deadly. But Connor—Connor is an entirely different animal. To have lived all this time and never killed a soul—it’s remarkable. But he cannot survive this way; if he wants to go on living he will have to kill eventually, and it looks like I will have to be the one to corrupt him.

  “Go check the other snares,” I order. “If there’s nothing there then take them apart and move on to the next. If you’ve caught something and it’s not dead already, it’s your job to kill it. Otherwise you don’t eat.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, he leaves to do what I have asked of him. While he is gone, I try to determine which way would be best to go from here, ultimately deciding we should keep heading west—even deeper into the woods—in order to further reduce our likelihood of running into other people. As I pace back and forth in my state of contemplation while I wait for Connor to return, the shrill cry of a bird’s warning call sounds somewhere in the distance, interrupting my thoughts. The sound of dozens of flapping wings follows, and I look above my head to find a flock of blackbirds scattering from the treetops in fear of some peril. While normally this would put me on my guard, now that I have Connor with me I know it was probably his loud, careless steps that frightened them away. I can’t help but sigh. If he doesn’t work on treading lighter, he’s going to cost us a lot of meals.

  When Connor returns, he carries three dead animals by the nooses that caught them. With a look of satisfaction, he displays what his snares captured: a hare and two more squirrels—enough to feed us today and probably well into tomorrow.

  “Impressive,” I praise him as I tie the animals to my belt. “It’s rare for every snare to catch something. Usually you’re lucky if even one works.”

  “Well two of them were empty, so I took them apart like you told me to.”

  “What are you talking about? We only set up three.”

  “What are you talking about? There were five.”

  Suddenly I remember the birds. “Connor, show me all of the strings you took from the nooses and leader lines.”

  He pulls the strings out of his jacket pocket and displays them to me. Though they are similar in appearance, four of them are noticeably thicker than the others. I look around frantically, trying to determine if someone might be lurking nearby.

  “Connor, we need to go. Now.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “There are other hunters here. We have to leave.”

  Connor’s face breaks into a wildly excited grin. “Other people? Nightshade, we have to meet them. They could be friendly. They could help us!”

  “Or they could kill us. Now are you coming or not?”

  Connor hesitates for a moment, but evidently realizing I am not going to change my mind, he nods and we take off at full speed. We run side by side, hurtling over fallen logs and careening around the trees and bushes that block our path. For a moment I no longer feel like the hunter, but the prey being hunted; it is a feeling I do not like. I turn my head, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of the predator chasing us so I know what I’m up against, but there is no trace of any pursuer. I look at Connor, whose sweat-beaded face is colorless with fear—fear of the unknown, fear of the unseen, fear of whatever managed to spook the girl without fear.

  We don’t stop running for nearly ten minutes—until I am sure there is a safe distance between whoever is back there and us—and even then we maintain a brisk walking pace and I continue to glance over my shoulder to check that no one is on our trail. Only when the sun begins to set am I finally sure we are safe from danger for the time being.

  As we make camp that night, Connor asks me why we didn’t at least attempt to talk to the other hunters. He just doesn’t seem to get it.

  “Because,” I say, my patience running thin, “maybe they could have been friendly. Maybe. But probably not. The fact is I would rather not risk my life on the off chance that they might decide not to kill us.”

  “So that’s it then, huh?” he asks, his voice thick with frustration. “You just assume everyone’s dangerous and untrustworthy and don’t even give them the opportunity to prove otherwise?”

  “Look, Connor, if you want to go back there and try to make friends that’s your prerogative, but I’m telling you that nine times out of ten interactions with other people don’t turn out well.”

  “And what about that one in ten? That’s not worth it to you?”

  How anyone who has lived in a world as cruel as this one for as long as I have can be this naïve is completely beyond me. Connor’s survival up until now is truly an anomaly if I’ve ever seen one.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re my one in ten,” I say. “Maybe after nine more I’ll consider giving that whole trusting thing a try.”

  Chapter 18

  About two months have passed since I first met Connor, and I can honestly say I’m beginning not to mind his presence. By now I have grown used to his constant company, and though his relentless chatter still gets on my nerves, I’ve learned to drown him out without a problem. It’s strange, really—I used to think he would be this parasite, sinking his teeth into me and not letting go until he had drained me of everything I had, but he has proven his ability to provide for himself and then some. Thanks to my daily lessons, his hunting skills have improved tenfold, so we have yet to go to sleep hungry even once. I have a feeling this is the first time in several years that he has been able to eat regular meals.

  And with each meal he eats, Connor seems to be growing bigger and stronger. Within just these past two months, I have watched him transform into a healthier version of himself. His previously emaciated body has become lean and fit, and his ribs are no longer quite as visible. His skin, once an ashen, bloodless gray, now has a ruddy complexion. His dark hair is still messy and unkempt, but with nourishment and more frequent bathing it has developed a healthy sheen. And his eyes—his eyes still shine that brilliant blue, but they are not the only beautiful thing about him anymore. He no longer looks like the helpless, sickly boy I found wandering on his own. He is beginning
to look like a survivor.

  I have grown used to his incessant questions, too. Although I strongly prefer him when he is silent, I understand he is curious and has a right to want to get to know me. He talks about his brother Alex a lot, and what life was like before the War. Sometimes I tell him more about my father, about how I lost him, about what I’ve been doing for the past four years without him. But I never speak about my past, about my life before the War, because as far as I’m concerned I had no life before the War. That was before Nightshade ever existed, so none of it matters.

  Still, although I remain guarded, I realize I have missed this—this human connection—and it has taken me until now to notice how alone I was before Connor came along. But he will die someday—I know that—and that someday is probably going to arrive sooner rather than later. My mother died, my father died, Ivy and Oliver and Angelica died, and Connor too will die—these are all indisputable facts. So although I have begun to let Connor in, I always make sure to keep him at an arm’s length away. It’s better for both of us that way.

  It is obvious Connor knows he will die too. I can tell by the way he carries himself, by the way he admires everything as if it’s the last time he will see it. But he wants to survive, to fight the inevitable—I guess that’s what we’re all doing, really, just fighting the inevitable. Every evening after we have eaten dinner and set up camp, the two of us train like my father and I used to do, except this time I am the mentor and Connor is the sad excuse for a student. Though he has a decent height and weight advantage on me, he doesn’t know how to use either of them to his benefit. He is clumsy and awkward and graceless, but I can tell he has potential. If he continues to bulk up at the rate he has been growing, he will make a formidable fighter one day—if he doesn’t get himself killed first.