by Kresley Cole
“What are the odds that there will be a physician, Evie?” Mom asked. “And even if there is, the doctor will never have whatever is necessary to heal me. Be realistic.” Was her voice fainter than it’d been yesterday? “And your plan to ride fast? A week ago, Allegra was about to keel over just from walking to the neighbor’s. She won’t make the property line now.”
Did Mom think I was just going to sit idly by and do crosswords with her? The last time I’d sat idly by hadn’t worked out so well for us.
What if I could’ve somehow used my visions to save our friends and loved ones . . . ?
Hell, the only positive thing about the voices was that they kept me from dwelling on the past, on what could’ve been. More than a dozen kids spoke in my head at various times, as cryptically as Matthew always did. This morning as I’d debated bringing Mom breakfast (knowing she’d turn it away), they’d ranted:
—Crush you with the Weight of Sins.—
—Red of tooth and claw!—
—We will love you. In our own way.—
“Evie,” Mom said, “I want you to dress up real nice and take a basket of cans over to Mr. Abernathy.”
The former animal control officer of the parish? “A basket. What do you think we are—rich?” The cellar full of cans that was supposed to last us years? We were down to weeks, were already rationing to the point of constant hunger.
“Do this for me, honey. Relieve my worries.”
In a mock-horrified tone, I said, “My mom’s pimping me out to a fifty-year-old dogcatcher.”
“He’s only thirty or so. And he’s a widower now.”
“You’re serious?” My mother, once so independent, now wanted me to go throw myself on the mercy of a man.
The woman who’d fought the old boys’ network of farming—and dominated—planned to offer up her daughter.
Don’t scream; keep the banter light. “Then why stop with a basket of cans, Mom? Don’t you think showing up with a fourteen-year-old sister-wife in tow would be more appropriate?”
“He’s one of the last people in Sterling, honey.”
Outside, the daily winds were starting up, pelting the shuttered windows, rocking Haven House until it creaked and groaned.
When the wind stirred up the ash, obscuring the sun, the temperature dropped. I busied myself smoothing another blanket over her. “Then maybe you should go out with Abernathy.”
“I’m forty-one and currently in no condition to go make nice with the boys. Evie, what if something happened to me? What would you do?” Ever since the attack, she’d been asking me this. “There’s no one here to look out for you, no one to protect you. It preys on my mind, thinking of you alone here.”
“I’ve asked you to stop talking like that. A few days ago, you told me you’d be fine. Now you’re acting like I’m about to have to institute Darwinism or cast you adrift on an iceberg or something.”
She sighed, and immediately started coughing. Once the fit subsided, I handed her a glass of water, making a mental note to go to the pump whenever there was a lull in the winds.
“Oh, Evie. What would you do?” she asked again.
I met her gaze, willing her to believe my words: “It won’t happen, Mom.” As soon as I left this room, I was going to march down to the barn. If Allegra could take a saddle, I was riding out for a doctor. “Why don’t you concentrate on getting better and leave the worrying to me?” I kissed her on the forehead. “I’m off to finish my booby trap.”
This was a believable lie. Though no one had ever trespassed—or even visited—Haven since the Flash, I’d been preoccupied with securing our home, with keeping Mom safe.
Her expression grew wary. “Evie, that’s so dangerous, and you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“All thumbs? Even I can follow a guidebook with pictures.”
“But the storm?”
The ash was disgusting but manageable. I dragged my ever-present bandanna from my neck up over my face, then made finger guns like a bandit. Mom smiled, but didn’t laugh.
“Get some rest,” I told her. “I’ll be back to bring you lunch.”
“Don’t forget your salt,” she called weakly.
My smile disappeared the instant I was alone. We were out of food, out of luck, out of time.
Back in my room, I donned my oversize Coach sunglasses and a hoodie, then strapped my shotgun over my back. Between that and the salt in my pockets, I was prepared for potential bad guys—and Bagmen.
Salt was supposed to repel the zombies—if we believed the few haunted-eyed stragglers who had passed through Sterling. They’d also said that plague had hit the North, nonstop fires raged out west, slavers ruled the bigger cities in the South, and cannibals had taken over the Eastern Seaboard.
Hearing tales like those made me thankful to be here, tucked away at Haven—even as I suffered the overpowering sense that I should be somewhere else, doing something else.
But what could possibly be more important than watching out for Mom . . . ?
Once I’d opened the hurricane shutter covering my window, I loosed the fire escape ladder, watching it unfurl down the side of the house.
This window was our only entrance. Early on, I’d braced all the doors with lumber, painstakingly nailing down the shutters on the first floor.
I closed my window behind me, then climbed down the swaying ladder into the swirling ash, like I was in the gym class of the damned. The sooty ground crunched when I hopped down.
At once, I had to lean into the wind or get tossed.
The only things constant about the new weather patterns? There was never any rain. For most of each day, we had windstorms. And after the storms faded, cloudless blue skies and that scorching sun returned.
At night, there was perfect stillness, with no insect chatter, no rustling leaves or swaying branches. Wretched silence.
Unless a quake rumbled somewhere in the distance.
When I passed the remains of the once mighty Haven oaks—now twisted black skeletons with leafless fingers—I slowed to run a hand over a crumbling trunk.
As ever, I felt a pang; they’d given their lives, protecting us.
That last night of rain before the Flash had saturated the thirsty, aged boards of Haven House and the barn. Between that and the cover of the oaks, the structures had been saved from the sky fires—though most wooden buildings in the parish had burned to the ground.
It was almost a blessing that I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. At least around the house we had the semblance of trees. But the fields . . .
My six million strong, destroyed utterly. I heard a sound, surprised to find it was a soft cry—from my own lips.
At the barn, I opened the double doors just enough to squeeze through without the wind catching them.
Inside, I drew down my bandanna, marching to Allegra’s stall. So help me, I’d make her take a saddle, and then we’d be off.
I didn’t see my horse in her stall—not until I was standing just before it, because she lay on her side, ribs jutting even worse than I’d realized. Her breaths were labored.
She could barely lift her lids, but she tried to, wanting to acknowledge me.
Did she ever wonder why I never brought her apples anymore? Was she scared? How could I let her suffer any longer?
Her expressive eyes rolled back, and she passed out. No Allegra; no doctor for Mom.
The grief and frustration welling up inside me had to have an outlet. I threw back my head and screamed at the top of my lungs.
I screamed. And screamed.
When my throat burned like fire, I finally stopped, choking out to the voices, “Come on, then! It’s your turn!” I jerked around in a circle. “There’s still some of me left to torment. Don’t be shy.”
Three different voices obliged, all speaking at once:
—Eyes to the skies, lads, I strike from above!—
—I watch you like a hawk.—
—I’ll make a feast of y
our bones!—
I recognized Ogen’s grating hiss. I’d figured out that at least some of the voices belonged to characters I’d had visions of.
I recalled the winged boy I’d glimpsed the night of my party. Maybe he was the one saying, I watch you like a hawk.
And the sparking, electric-looking guy? Had those been his lightning javelins? Perhaps that was his Irish-accented voice saying, Eyes to the skies, lads.
I’d seen those boys and the blurry-faced archer lying in wait. Now they were in my head among many more. Could any of those kids possibly be real?
Boys with wings and lightning javelins. Horned creatures like Ogen. Death . . .
Before the Flash, I’d never been crazy. After? I was on a slippery slope and they kept pushing, pushing at me, until I was sure to fall.
I unstrapped my gun, put my back against the wall, and slid down, knocking my head against the wood. Over and over.
I’d always wondered why kids had done that at CLC—seemed like it’d freaking hurt—but now I knew why. That pain distracted me from my misery.
Yet it did nothing for those voices. They swarmed like wasps in my head.
—We will love you. . . . Feast of your bones. . . . I strike from above!—
“Matthew!” I called. “I’ll take the migraine. Just come here. Please?”
Naturally, my attitude had changed toward him, toward all the visions. I craved his visits now. During his latest, he’d explained to me, “He hurts when he helps.”
Did I have any idea what that meant? Nope, but I just liked that Matthew was nearby.
Another time he’d popped up just to inform me somberly, “You are the only friend I’ve ever had.”
When he didn’t come this time, I stemmed my disappointment, commanding myself to concentrate and block those voices out. Think about what to do!
Mom had once asked if we would eat Allegra if things got desperate enough. I’d thought the better question would be, How can Evie look her horse in the eye, shoot it, then butcher it?
I was about to find out.
If Allegra couldn’t be used for transportation, then she’d be . . . food. Mom would have to do better with more nourishment; she sure as hell couldn’t do worse.
This was the only thing I could do to help her.
Butcher my gentle Allegra.
With a cry, I dropped my face into my hands, my eyes brimming with tears. Soon I was sobbing worse than I had day one after the Flash, when I’d first suspected that most everyone on earth was dead.
Pain sliced into my scalp. Tears drenched my cheeks—and my forehead?
I glanced down, saw blood streaming into my palms. “Shit!” I’d cut my forehead with my razor-sharp claws, and now blood was pouring down my face. It dripped from my chin, saturating my bandanna.
Leaving a trail of crimson behind me, I squinted around for something not dust-coated to dry the wounds with, but I couldn’t see through the blood.
I frantically wiped my eyes, blinded by the cascade. Scalp wounds bled so much, and now I had ten of them!
Finding no makeshift bandage, I pulled my soaked bandanna up over my entire face, pressing the bunched seam at the top against the line of cuts.
I froze when I heard a whisper of sound to my right. Then another to my left. I sensed movement all around me, but was too terrified to flee, to yank down my blood-soaked blindfold.
Shuddering, I eased my hand toward my gun, patting the wet ground—and felt some creature straining against my palm.
A rat! Several rats? I shrieked, lurching away, tumbling onto my back as I snatched at the bandanna. Rats would eat me alive in this barn!
I swiped an arm over my eyes, could finally see—
My jaw dropped, my breath leaving me in a rush. At length, I was able to murmur, “Oh my God.”
I was looking up at . . . plants.
Shoots of green were growing in the dust all around me. Wherever my blood had hit old oats or hayseeds, they’d sprouted.
I rose cautiously. It had been so long since I’d been near a living plant; I’d almost convinced myself that I had been hallucinating about my connection to them.
The voices tried to ring the Evie bell then, but I was so fascinated with my new discovery that for a few brief moments, I could turn down the volume.
As I gauged my sanity, the plants stretched toward a murky shaft of light. Could this be real? I tentatively touched a stalk with another drop of blood.
It shot higher, from seedling to mature in seconds. “Life in your very blood,” Death had said. My mind could hardly wrap around the possibilities. I needed—
“More seed.”
I took off toward the house, sprinting into the wind. By the time I’d reached the kitchen, my claws had retracted and my head had stopped bleeding, already healing.
Inside the pantry, I ransacked a box filled with seed packs. Mom and I had collected them, thinking we’d grow food for ourselves.
Nothing ever took for us. Nor for anyone that we’d heard of.
But now . . .
My thoughts raced as fast as my heartbeat. There was an area at the back of the barn where the roof had caved in, creating a space open to the sky. We’d meant to fix it, fearing rain would pour inside.
No rain ever came. Only sun, dust, and ash. But I could grow crops there.
I stuffed packs into my jeans pockets. If Mom had enough food—good food—then she would get better. Yes, of course! She wasn’t healing as she should because she was weak with hunger.
My narrowed gaze turned toward the barn. I could fix that. I could even mend our horse, then set off to find a doctor.
Out of food, out of luck, and out of time? I could take advantage of this luck, grow new food, and buy time.
With nothing more than a razor blade.
After all, how much blood could one girl need?
16
DAY 220 A.F.
I thought I’d heard a motorcycle.
This morning the winds were still. With no leaves, cars, or animal calls, sound carried differently now.
Can it possibly be? I wondered as I stumbled away from the house, weak from blood loss. Since my discovery last week, I’d been aggressively . . . farming.
That motorcycle sound stirred up memories from a former life, a time of comfort and plenty that seemed a thousand years past.
I could almost close my eyes, listen to that rumble, and pretend I still lived that existence.
Almost. The bitter scent of ash and the jarring voices in my mind made it hard to pretend.
You’re just delirious, Evie. There was no motorcycle—any more than there would be planes in the sky.
Yes, delirium. Alas, that was an occupational hazard of being a blood farmer. Especially one with such bountiful crops as mine.
I’d believed the side effects from yesterday’s bloodletting had abated. Apparently they hadn’t, if I was imagining figments from the past.
But really, what was one more imaginary sound? Join the chorus, roar along with the voices!
I trudged onward to the barn, determined to get to work. The sky was clear for now. That unbroken blue above should’ve been beautiful to me, but it seemed like it was trying too hard to compensate for the lack of green.
To me, that blue sky seemed like a forced smile. . . .
I remembered Brandon once saying that his thoughts were on shuffle between me and football. Now my life was on shuffle, among three miserable tracks.
Track One. In the morning, I would bandage Mom’s ribs. I might be deluding myself, but I didn’t think they looked worse. Yet her thoughts seemed foggier, and she was sleeping all the time.
After making Mom comfortable, I would head to the barn for Track Two before lunch. My new rows of crops seemed to mute the voices, shoring up my sanity for precious hours—yet that came with a price.
Track Three. When I was alone in my bed at night, those voices exploded. As if my beloved crops had just forced them into a bottle of soda that
would later be shaken until the top burst.
Until I wanted to tear out my hair. If I could somehow sleep through the noise, I was rewarded with lifelike scenes of the red witch. . . .
Just minutes ago, I’d completed Track One. I’d left Mom dozing fitfully after a crying jag. Hers, not mine.
The more her health declined, the more emotional she grew.
“Why didn’t I . . . listen?” she’d wheezed. “Gran told me you were special, and I laughed at her. Why couldn’t I believe in her—or you . . . the two people I loved most in the world?”
Though I’d often wondered that myself, I’d tried to soothe her, telling her that everything was going to be fine now.
After her outburst, I knew I couldn’t reveal my new talent. For days, I’d debated it, but how would she feel when confronted with yet more proof that I was “special”? More crying, more coughing fits?
My pilgrim’s bounty would be like a slap in the face to the woman who’d dispatched me to Child’s Last Chance. So I’d decided to keep quiet.
If she was out of it, I could sneak her little bites of succulent honeydew and strawberries. Yesterday morning, she’d murmured, “This must be a dream.”
For other times, I’d simply pickled the vegetables and told her I’d found jars in storage or at a neighbor’s.
Did I know how to pickle food? Hell no. But I knew how to eat pickles out of a jar, then drop the new veggies into the pickle juice.
At the barn doors, I opened the padlock. No, we hadn’t had visitors or trespassers here; regardless, I’d been paranoid enough about the priceless contents of our barn to lock it.
Inside, Allegra whinnied with a touch more energy. At least she was on her feet. After an initial lack of appetite, she’d become the delighted recipient of constant melon rinds.
“Hey, girl.” I ran my palm down her neck, touching noses with her. I’d allotted two more days before I’d risk a trip with her.
Too soon, and I could kill her, eliminating any hope of finding a doctor. Too late, and . . .
Don’t go there, Evie.
In the back, I ducked under the fallen roof rafters to enter my garden, shucking out of my jacket. After rolling up a sleeve of my sweater, I pulled out my pack of razor blades from my jeans pocket, sliding one off the top.
