by Sara Grant
‘There are a few of these natural springs in the mountains around here,’ Tate said, as if he had somehow become our nature guide. ‘Weird, huh?’
‘Let’s refill our water bottles,’ Marissa said, and got to work.
‘Nah,’ Tate said, standing a few feet away. ‘I don’t like wasps, sheep spit or whatever else might be swimming in that water. I don’t even drink tap water.’
The boy didn’t fully appreciate how dire our situation was yet; he was going to have to sacrifice more than bottled water, but I didn’t feel like enlightening him.
After a brief rest, we walked on. Complete and utter exhaustion usurped my overwhelming anxiety. I recognized a cluster of what Tate said were Joshua trees. I thought we’d passed them before but I couldn’t be sure.
‘We need to mark where we’ve been,’ I said when we reached a line of pine trees. Marissa and Tate parked themselves in the first proper shade we’d seen all day. Marissa stretched out on a bed of pine needles.
‘What?’ Tate asked, plucking the earphones out of his ears.
‘I said I think we need to mark where we’ve been,’ I repeated. ‘Listen to your music and give me a minute.’
He turned his silver iPod over in his hands as if it were the first time he’d seen it. It was the brand-new version that could hold a million-ish songs and play movies, probably had some sort of global positioning, and, for all I knew, actually stored the boy’s brain. ‘It hasn’t been on,’ Tate said. ‘I’ve been saving my battery – even though I probably shouldn’t worry. Dad had this custom-made for me. Its battery life is, like, insane. I’ve been creating playlists in my head or trying to remember every tune on a CD in the right order. That kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ My heart sank. The boy was a walking noisemaker.
‘I’ve got a pocket-knife.’ He dug in his pocket and fished out a red Swiss Army knife. ‘You said you wanted to mark where we’ve been. You could use this to carve something on trees.’
I took the knife from him and flipped out the blade. I scooted next to the nearest tree and carved my initials. It felt good to dig the knife into the fleshy bark. I dug the letters deep into the tree. I walked a few feet to another tree and carved the letters again. ‘I’m going to look around. I’ll be right back.’ I wanted to get away from them for a few minutes.
I wandered from tree to tree, making my mark. I’m sure it wasn’t good for the tree, but it was a matter of life and death. I found a patch of dirt and sat cross-legged. I slipped the pocket-knife in my phone pocket.
It was quiet up here. I mean a quiet like I had never really experienced before. Our fridge buzzed. Our air conditioner hummed. The traffic roared. This kind of quiet was unnatural and unnerved me.
Something furry brushed against my arm. I sprang to my feet.
My panic fizzled when I realized I wasn’t going to be eaten by a grizzly bear or mauled by a coyote. Bears and coyotes don’t really brush up against you before they devour you. The closest I’d ever come to an animal attack was a squirrel stealing my sandwich at the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool.
I looked at the source of my terror. A black cat. A domestic cat, not a jaguar. It rubbed up against my legs and purred. The cat was a sign. In the middle of nowhere, a friendly black cat sauntered over for a cuddle. It had to be a sign. But superstitions were relative. My American dad thought a black cat meant bad luck, but if you were British, like my mother, black cats were good luck. Or, maybe this was heat stroke and I was hallucinating house pets. I knelt down and petted the cat’s head with one finger in slow, metered strokes. It flopped on its side at my feet, stretched its paws and rolled from side to side.
‘You’re a good sign,’ I said out loud to the cat.
‘I see you’ve met Midnight.’ A deep voice startled me.
I fell back on my butt. Only a few feet away stood a guy, maybe my age, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans. I scrambled away from him. Adrenaline surged through my body and every part of me trembled.
Even in my full-out horror-movie fright, I registered that he was handsome in a Times Square billboard model way: silky jet-black hair tied back in a slick, low ponytail; possibly Native American heritage; dark, nearly black, eyes; tall, probably a head taller than me if I were able to stand up. I bet there was a six-pack under that tight white T. You’d think his underwear-model looks might make me relax, but again, the horror-movie handbook clearly states that the better-looking they are, the more deadly they can be.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was so low it resonated in my chest.
I couldn’t speak, only spider-walk, like the chick from The Exorcist, farther away from him. The air seemed to rattle as if my meltdown were in surround sound.
The cat leapt to her feet. Her back arched and every hair on her body stood at attention. Her tail sprang up in a straight line. She opened her mouth and hissed, exposing needle-like fangs. The tiny domestic cat was possessed and, believe it or not, incredibly scary. My brain told me to run, but it was as if the air around me had thickened to caramel.
The guy’s body tensed. ‘Shut up and stay still,’ he barked. He moved in slow motion. He twisted his arm behind his back. When his hand reappeared, it was holding a gun. I’d seen bazillions of guns, but none this up close and personal until today, and now I’d seen two. If you’ve ever read any murder mysteries, you know the author will tell you what kind of gun the bad guy is holding. All I could tell was that it was pointed right at me. I didn’t care if it was a 747 Magnum, a shotgun or a semi-automatic. All he needed was one bullet, which I assumed he had, reasonable aim and the slightest twitch of his pointer finger.
‘Please. No.’ I was babbling and pleading in this baby whisper kind of way. I’d like to say I had some profound final words, but all I could say was, ‘No. No. No.’
‘Don’t move!’ he shouted. I drew myself into a tight ball, wrapping my arms around my legs. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly.
‘Shit!’ the guy bellowed. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
The air exploded with a deafening bang!
Chapter Thirteen
‘Your attitude determines your altitude.’
– Just Saying 192
BECKETT
Greta is all Beckett can think about as he patrols the Mountain or leads the Evening Tune. Her face and touch come to him even as he’s instructing the rockstars on a Just Saying. He’s never felt like this before. She’s everything and everywhere and yet he doesn’t really know her. He feels more alive, somehow, having her all to himself. This daydream is like cupping the cool spring water in his hands. It’s refreshing, but he can’t hold it for long without it slipping through his fingers.
This has to be the last time they meet. Now that everyone has seen the lights, these secret meetings are too risky. Finch has Cheerleaders constantly patrolling the Mountain, searching for Terrorists. Beckett isn’t helping by keeping his meetings with Greta a secret. He should tell Harper or Finch, but their paranoia about anything Out There has blossomed into fear. Beckett doesn’t know what would happen if anyone found him and Greta together. The only way Greta will be safe is to keep her and her people off the Mountain.
Sneaking out this morning was tricky. Beckett followed the early-morning patrol and peeled off when they returned to Forreal. He won’t have much time with Greta, but how long can it take to say goodbye?
He holds his breath as he nears the place where they agreed to meet. He pauses and clings to the sweet anticipation before looking up to the spot where he first saw her, facing the Man-Made Mountains with the sun kissing her cheeks.
‘Hi,’ she says shyly, and waves down at him.
‘Hey,’ Beckett says as he climbs up the rock and takes his place next to her.
‘So,’ she says, and slips her hand in his.
How can she do that with such ease, as if their hands were always meant to clasp? He smiles with what feels like his whole body.
‘I missed you,’ she says. The same words were o
n his tongue, there ready and waiting, but she speaks them.
‘I missed you too.’ He feels the warmth of a blush rise into his cheeks. He thinks the words sound silly when he says them.
They stand there, suspended in the morning sun. He wants to stay like this forever.
‘Some day, you are going to have to tell me more about Forreal,’ she says as if starting in the middle of a conversation. He wonders if, like he does, she keeps a running list of the things she wants to tell him. He has this ongoing monologue to her in his head. It’s similar to the dialogue he has with the Great I AM. Thoughts of Greta keep edging into his meditation time. That’s another reason that this has to be goodbye.
She continues, ‘I mean, I know there are less than fifty of you and you live together on the other side of the mountain. Those mounds that surround the mountain are your ancestors. I think it’s amazing you have lived here for so long.’ She sighs.
He didn’t realize he’d told her so much, but he loses himself when they are together. He doesn’t want to be guarded with her. She makes him feel as if he can truly be himself, not just some title that comes with expectations and demands.
‘I feel as if I’ve moved more than I’ve stayed,’ she says.
‘Why is that? Why don’t your people stay?’ he asks, trying to change the subject. He doesn’t want her to know he’s the Cheer Captain. He doesn’t want to tell her about the Great I AM. He doesn’t want her to look at him any differently than she does right now.
‘That’s not fair. I answer your questions and you never answer mine.’ She tugs her hand free and his hand feels naked. ‘I’ll answer this one last question, then you have to talk. OK?’
‘OK,’ he says.
Greta takes a deep breath, as if her answer may take a while. ‘My family lived on a farm far away from everyone else. That’s how they survived after . . . you know.’
Beckett doesn’t know. He knows Terrorists destroyed everything in the Time Before, but none of his ancestors created a story about the Plague or the Battles. The Great I AM said, It’s better to look forward than back. He knows fragments, but he gets the sense Greta’s people could fill in the gaps.
‘My family stayed on the farm as long as they could until we ran out of resources. We’ve been moving around ever since I was born.’ She has a faraway look. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
What can he tell her? ‘The Mountain has been good to us. It provides what we need. We survive because we work together.’
She takes his hand again and gently swings. ‘Maybe you should consider joining us. Move to Vega. Wouldn’t it be great to see each other all the time? We could combine our resources.’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I mean it’s fromplicated,’ Beckett says. He feels as if she’s setting a trap, trying to get him to expose what he’s painstakingly kept hidden.
‘What?’ Greta asks.
‘Fromplicated,’ he says again, as if repeating it will make her understand. She shrugs. He tries a different way. ‘It’s very difficult and complex.’
‘Oh,’ Greta nods. ‘Complicated.’
‘I guess,’ he says, even though she’s saying it wrong.
‘Go on,’ Greta encourages.
‘The Mountain is special to us. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t grown up here. We belong here. We can’t leave.’
‘Do you mean you’ve never left the Mountain?’ Greta’s mouth gapes open in surprise.
‘No, not really.’ Beckett can feel his face getting hot. ‘We send teams out every so often to salvage things, but I never get to go.’ He explains how Forreal creates a chain of people so everyone can see the person just ahead and just behind. They have scouts that shuttle things back and forth. They have lookouts. They leave when the sun rises and return well before it sets. He doesn’t say they do this elaborate gathering manoeuvre to defend against a Terrorist attack. He doesn’t want to frighten her with talk of beasties.
‘There’s so much more out there.’ She spins around with her arms open wide. ‘How can you not be curious?’
Her face is alive with life. It makes him realize how little they smile in Forreal. They work and worship and every day is like the last – until she showed up. For a second he wishes he could leave the Mountain with Greta. He immediately asks the Great I AM to forgive him. He didn’t mean it.
‘You know there’s a big wide world beyond these mountains?’ she says when she stops spinning. She staggers a bit and he grabs her elbow to steady her. ‘We picked Vega because the mountains are a natural barrier to keep people out.’
So she’s scared of others too.
Greta pinches the front of her shirt, and pulls the sweat-wet material away.
‘I keep forgetting to ask . . .’ He points to Greta’s shirt with its hand-drawn circle with an inverted Y in the middle. The pie pieces are floating free. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s the ancient symbol for peace,’ she says, peeling the shirt from her skin again so he can get a better look. ‘I don’t know if I’ve drawn it right.’
‘Peace,’ he repeats, and likes the thought of it. While there are Terrorists Out There, he doesn’t think Forreal will ever truly have peace.
Greta moves in front of him. His arms hover and then slip around her waist. He smells the tang of sweat and the tart of the earth that coats everyone, but there’s a hint of something floral. He drinks it in. She presses her cheek to his and they stay like this, suspended between two places. He holds his body very still. His mind mellows. People aren’t looking to him, waiting for answers. He’s just a boy lost in a girl.
‘This is nice,’ Greta murmurs. He rests his head on hers. No matter what happens he will always have this one perfect moment.
He senses movement in his peripheral vision. He glances in that direction, but he doesn’t see anything. Finch’s paranoia is rubbing off. Then he feels something tickle his leg. He jumps, surprised at his surprise, but it’s only Lucky. She meows as if she’s trying to tell him something.
‘Who is this?’ Greta asks, and strokes the cat between her pointy ears. Lucky flops on her side and rolls on her back. She extends her front paws in the air, exposing the soft fur on her chest.
‘That’s Lucky,’ he says, knowing exactly what the cat wants. He scratches her furry stomach.
‘I’ve never seen a black cat before,’ Greta says, kneeling beside Lucky. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘There has always been a black cat on the Mountain,’ Beckett says. ‘We have a special reverence for cats.’
‘You mean you worship cats?’ Greta asks, touching the black pad of the cat’s outstretched paw.
‘No,’ he says. ‘But cats have a special connection to Forreal.’ He won’t tell Greta how important this cat is. He realizes it might sound odd that Forreal believes some great calamity will befall them if there is not a black cat on the Mountain. Other cats roam the Mountain, but Lucky has always been special. A black cat saved the Great I AM.
There’s a sound like the clack of rock on rock. Lucky darts back the way she came. Greta must hear it too because she and Beckett shift so they are standing back to back, turning in a tight circle, scanning their surroundings.
‘Follow me,’ she whispers. She’s holding his hand again and leading him down the Mountain.
‘I can’t,’ he says, and digs his heels into the rock, but there’s no foothold. Pebbles roll under his feet. Something flashes out of the corner of his eye and now he’s clambering down the rocks alongside her.
He sees it again, movement in his peripheral vision. He senses it too. Someone is watching. Maybe it’s his guilt creating this sensation. Or is it the Great I AM’s watchful eye?
‘Come on,’ Greta says, pulling Beckett forwards. Beckett wonders if the Great I AM can see him if he leaves the Mountain.
They begin to run. He trips and tries to regain his balance, but he stumbles and hits the ground hard. His body keeps rolling and collecting debris. He crashes into one of his ancient ance
stor’s burial mounds and pain radiates through his body.
Greta is at his side. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asks.
He shakes his head and rises to his elbows. Nothing is broken or bleeding. He sends thanks to the Great I AM. Was the trip telling him not to leave the Mountain? Or was the roll, the inertia, the Great I AM’s way of sending him into the wide world Greta mentioned? Before Greta, the Great I AM’s messages were clear. Now, he can’t decipher the Great I AM’s wishes through the muddle of his feelings for Greta.
Greta tucks his dreadlocks behind each ear. ‘I’m sorry, Beckett, this is my fault. I thought if I got you off the mountain . . .’ Her voice trails off.
‘What?’ He props himself against the rock.
She sits down next to him and bows her head. ‘You’re always looking around, preoccupied. I thought if I got you off the mountain, we could truly be alone. It was stupid and I’m sorry.’
He is overcome with emotion. He kneels beside her. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. His tightly puckered lips press her half-open mouth.
She pulls away, blinking in surprise. Then she kneels in front of him. She slowly, gently touches her lips to his. She tilts her head and nudges his lips apart with hers, showing him how to respond. He mirrors her every move. His heart is racing. They are falling into each other. He can’t be close enough to her. His hands grope, wanting to hold and explore her simultaneously. Every part of her is so soft: her hair, her skin, her curves, her lips. He realizes his fingers are tangled in her hair.
What is he doing? He wrenches himself away and wipes at his lips.
‘Beckett.’ Greta crawls towards him, but he scrambles away. It’s too much. This is all too much.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he says, and stands. If he stays one more moment, if she kisses him again, he will never be able to tell her goodbye.
‘What?’ Greta is stumbling to her feet. She’s tugging at the hem of her T-shirt, which has risen up to expose her creamy white stomach. ‘When can I see you again?’ she asks, and slips into his arms.
