A Single Light

by Tosca Lee

  The trunk pops. Buckeye pulls out the gas can and gives it a shake, the liquid sloshing inside.

  “Aren’t you three full of surprises,” the Warden says, glancing at each of us in turn. “Now I just don’t know what to do. I can think of five kids who’d really like to eat dinner this week and at least one lady in dire need of some clean undershorts.”

  I take a quick breath but Chase shakes his head. Watch nervously as the Warden considers the contents of our packs and then the gas can, hand on his hip.

  Take the packs. Take the guns. Anything but the gas.

  “Aw hell,” the Warden says, sweeping an arm out. “We’ll just take the whole lot. You three go enjoy yourself as much as you want, and we’ll call it a wash.”

  Panic surges inside me.

  Without gasoline, I stand to lose not just Julie, but the girls.

  “Sir?” Chase says as Jenner stuffs things back into the packs. “Is there any way we can hold on to that gas?”

  “Please,” I say, raising my palms. “Our friend doesn’t have long. You take that gas, and we’ll never make it back in time to save her.”

  “Am I hearing you right?” the Warden says strangely, rounding on me. “Are you—are you trying to say that your friend’s life is more valuable than one of ours?”

  “No,” I say quietly, trying to remember how long it took us to get from Gurley to Sidney on bikes. To calculate how many hours it takes to ride 134 miles. Ten? Fifteen? But I just don’t know.

  “You don’t think we have sick people here?” He waves my pistol toward his men. “People who might need to go somewhere else to find the medicine they need? Just who do you think you are?”

  “No one special,” I say, looking him right in the eye at last.

  “Trust me, little girl, I’m doing you a favor. It’d be irresponsible of me as a fellow citizen to let you go into town carrying that gas can. You know what would happen to you?” He gives a low whistle. “It’d be like walking into a bear den in a meat dress. Like oh . . . who was that who had that meat dress? Jenner.” He snaps his fingers.

  Jenner shrugs.

  “Katy Perry?” Buckeye says.

  The man stationed at the front of the car nods. “Yeah, her,” he says.

  “Katy Perry,” the Warden says, as though that settles it.

  I’m starting to shake. Am this close to losing it. Trying to come up with anything else to say. But I can’t think over the clock ticking down with each hammer of my pulse.

  “All right. If we’re all settled, we’ll get going,” Chase says. He takes Otto by the shoulder, his eyes telling me to start moving.

  The Warden drops his head with a sigh. Curses.

  “Okay, look, I’m willing to let you keep the car just because, I’ll be honest, I think I might have got the better deal taking this heirloom off your hands. How’s this thing shoot, anyway?” he asks, holding the pistol up.

  But what good is the car when it’s on empty?

  “Fine,” I say.

  He nods. “We’ll have to take it to a vote. Buckeye?”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Jenner.”

  “Yup.”

  He points to the others in turn. I start for the car.

  “Whoa, hold your horses,” the Warden says. “It might be a formality, but let it never be said I didn’t do things according to procedure. You get to vote, too.”

  I force myself to look at him.

  “Yes,” I say tightly.

  “Yeah,” Chase says, so tense he looks ready to snap.

  Otto nods.

  The Warden cocks his head.

  “Speak up, boy!”

  Otto nods again.

  The Warden glances around at us. “Something wrong with him?”

  “He doesn’t talk,” Chase says.

  “That’s a shame, given that this is a verbal vote.”

  “You know what?” I say. “Keep the car. We’ll go.”

  The Warden shakes his head. “No, you can’t do that. Because I fully intend to make this right, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

  Otto glances around, eyes wide. Takes a breath. With a grimace, he forces out a wheeze like the bray of a donkey.

  The Warden cocks his head. “Well, I can’t make heads nor tails of that, can you?”

  “We said we don’t want the car!” Chase says, a vein bulging near his temple. “Keep it. Call it a gift!”

  It happens in slow motion, like a car accident. Like the time my sister and I were riding in Mom’s old Buick, down some road in Chicago. I don’t remember where we were going. Just the curvy red sports car that pulled out in front of us. Jackie throwing her arms out in the front seat. She must have screamed, but if she did, I didn’t hear it, too fixated on that red car getting bigger. Mom turning the steering wheel for what felt like forever before everything sped up and the seat belt cut across my chest.

  Like the time on Dad’s birthday she’d poured steak sauce on the side of his plate before coming to set it in front of him with shaking fingers. Jackie and me watching from opposite sides of the table as though everything depended on that single piece of meat. Watching in horror as her thumb slipped on the saucy rim, the plate taking so long to fall I’d already heard the screams from the fight to come, seen the fresh bruises by the time it hit the floor.

  The Warden turns. Almost casually raises the pistol.

  I scream as Chase throws his arms up.

  Am already running as the shot cracks the air.

  They were standing so close to each other I don’t even know which one he was aiming at until Otto looks down . . .

  At the dark stain blooming down the front of his T-shirt.

  8 P.M.

  * * *

  Otto sags in Chase’s arms, his own sprawled like broken wings.

  I skid to my knees, cupping Otto’s head as Chase lowers him to the ground. Otto looks between us, eyes wide.

  “I got you. I got you, buddy,” Chase says, pulling his shirt over his head. Balling it up on top of the wound.

  It’s the second time he’s had to do that in the space of months.

  “Now, it’s unanimous,” the Warden says behind me. “Even saved you an extra mouth to feed.”

  My head snaps up. Vision red. And I can feel my lips pulling back from my teeth as I plant my foot beneath me.

  Chase grabs me by the wrist so hard I jerk in his grasp, pain like white light behind my eyes so that I barely register the hard shake of his head.

  The Warden claps Jenner across the shoulders as they start back up the hill. “Open the barricade, boys. Let’s let these fine folks through.”

  Otto writhes on the ground between us, blinking at the sky.

  There’s so much blood.

  “What do we do?” I cry. “He said there’s a hospital. We have to get to the hospital!”

  Chase blows out a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. Reopens them, blinking several times before leaning up into Otto’s line of vision.

  “Hey, buddy,” he says softly.

  Otto’s gaze meets his.

  “You wanna get out of here?” Chase says.

  Otto nods, expression strained.

  “Okay. Wynter, hold this.” He nods toward the T-shirt. “Lots of pressure.” He gets up, goes to the car. Returns a few seconds later and kneels down. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Otto’s brows lift, bemused—and then clamp down in pain as Chase scoops him up, my hand pressing against the wound, the other beneath Otto’s head.

  We rush to the car, where Chase has laid the front passenger seat back. Get him in, Chase holding the sodden T-shirt in place as I climb in back and reach over the console. Press it down again as Chase closes the door.

  All this time the car has been running.

  I glance up the hill where the exit merges onto the bypass just in time to watch the trucks move out of the way, one of them pulling out completely before rumbling down the road away from town.

  Chase gets i
n and two seconds later we’re emerging from the maze of cars and pulling onto the bypass.

  I glance in the rearview mirror, catch a brief glimpse of the truck turning just past the Days Inn.

  Otto clasps my wrist, breath shallow. A wheeze coming from his chest.

  “I’m so sorry, Otto,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry! Hang in there, okay? We’re going to get you help.”

  I lower my head, free hand reaching for his.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed. Obsessing is far easier. Checking, reviewing with a matching compulsion in the search for assurance and control.

  All an illusion.

  There’s no compulsion for this. For what to do next when all your options are gone.

  So I pray. Remembering that the ground has always met my foot when I couldn’t see beyond my next step. Believing that the world is too in need of beauty to give up a person like Otto. Who isn’t an extra mouth at all. Only a gift.

  We follow the blue H signs toward the hospital. The roads are clear, the sun gilding the street.

  But when we get there, the lot is a jungle of cars, of fallen-down tents and garbage everywhere. Flyers mashed into the concrete. The windows of the hospital broken, like a thousand eyes, put out.

  Chase pulls around back. Gets out and runs to the ER entrance.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet Truly, my niece,” I say to Otto, squeezing his hand. “She’s never seen the ocean, either. Maybe we’ll just want to stay. What do you think of that?”

  He gives a faint, pained smile.

  “We’ll have to get you sunscreen. Lots of sunscreen,” I say. “A big, floppy hat. You won’t even need shoes.”

  Chase comes walking back to the car.

  “Okay, here we go,” I say, reaching over Otto to get the door.

  I stop as Chase comes back to the driver’s side, something in his hand.

  “What?” I say, as he gets back in.

  “Place is one of those colonies,” he says, holding up the crumpled paper.

  INFECTED

  NO SERVICES. NO VACCINES. UNSANITARY CONDITIONS.

  THIS IS A QUARANTINE AREA.

  DO NOT ENTER UNLESS YOU ARE ALREADY ILL

  WITH R.E.O.D. OR DROPPING OFF SOMEONE WHO IS.

  DOOR WILL LOCK BEHIND YOU!

  I read without comprehending.

  “Guard said there hasn’t been any hospital staff since May. They’re all gone.”

  Otto’s breath is rattling in his chest, his lips tinged blue.

  Chase looks at me, as though to ask: Where?

  We pull out of the parking lot, past the line of trees, the sky aglow in purple and red. Otto lets go of my hand and reaches as though to touch that palette of color, fingers splayed against the window.

  I glance at Chase.

  He turns down the main street, accelerating toward the edge of town. Past stores without windows and neighborhoods lit only by burn barrels, abandoned schools and empty grain elevators. Running on fumes. Chasing the sunset.

  We end up on a gravel road, drive for a mile. Past fields that should have been planted, sprouting by now. Green and lush with weeds.

  There’s a creek ahead; I can tell by the meandering line of trees. Otto points and we head for it.

  The car slows and then stops, having taken us as far as it will go.

  Chase comes round, the dash blinking. Lifts Otto from the passenger side and carries him toward the creek, Otto’s head against his chest.

  I let go of the sodden T-shirt in my hand.

  We prop Otto against the trunk of a locust tree, his face tilted to the sun, the way it was as he pedaled down the highway. Curl up on the earth beside him as color fades over the horizon.

  “It’s beautiful, Otto,” I say, looking up at him. He nods, faintly.

  Frogs sing from the creek bed against a choir of cicadas.

  Sometime later, Otto gasps.

  “What is it?” I say, eyes going to the wound, which has not stopped bleeding. But when I look up his face is filled with wonder.

  His hand lifts, so slowly. Touches his forehead with his thumb. The same way he did when I asked him about his father.

  “Your dad?” Chase says.

  Otto nods.

  I turn my head against his chest, tears soaking his bloody shirt. Sputter an uneven exhale. A minute later I feel him pat my shoulder.

  By the time I’ve collected myself the field has come alive, fireflies sparking the air like Christmas as twilight descends.

  I pray, disconsolate, and wait for a miracle.

  Sometime later, I open my eyes.

  The moon’s up, so bright the trees cast nocturnal shadows. A lone cicada sings a sleepy chorus.

  “Otto?” I whisper and lift my head.

  His eyes are closed. He might be sleeping.

  As I sit up, his hand falls open.

  A last firefly takes to the air.

  “Otto?” I say, his name breaking on my lips. Diaphragm hitching with sobs as I shake his shoulders.

  His head lolls and he slumps to the side. His thin frame an abandoned thing.

  Chase shoves to his feet and walks off, arms clasped over his head. A minute later he bends, grabs something off the ground. Throws it with a savage yell and rages at the sky.

  DAY 182

  * * *

  We lay Otto in the creek bed, having no way to bury him. Cover him with stones.

  Sleep the last hour till dawn in the Honda.

  6 A.M.

  * * *

  Lashes brush against bare skin. Sticky against my cheek. Chase’s chest rising and falling beneath me.

  I twitch at the sensation of something crawling on my arm. Push up, head pounding. Mouth like cotton.

  Needing to pee.

  I clumsily extricate myself from Chase’s arms. He’s sleeping so hard he doesn’t even move as his hand slaps back to his chest.

  It’s smeared with dried blood.

  I slide out of the backseat. We never bothered to shut the door. Glance down at myself as I unbutton my jeans.

  Hands caked with blood like the murderer I’m supposed to be.

  Squatting behind the Honda’s back bumper, I can’t help but wonder if somehow I am. If Otto would be alive right now if I’d stayed silent. Or if Chase had. Or I’d pointed to another exit. Or chosen a different car.

  If we’d just all walked away.

  Stop.

  I notice something on the floor of the backseat as I come around the car.

  Otto’s sketchbook.

  I drop to sit on the ground beside the open backseat. Slide the sketchbook from the floor.

  There’s blood spattered on the front of it.

  I scratch it with a fingernail, brush a few bits away. After a moment, I open the book. Find myself looking at an older woman holding a casserole. Even though it’s a pencil sketch, I know her hair is gray. She’s laughing, in that bashful and self-conscious way people do when you compliment them. And I swear I can see the vivacious girl she once was in those wrinkled eyes.

  I page through a few more until I come to the portrait of Noah. Wonder where he is now. If he had a contingency plan of some kind—a backup bug-out compound.

  Surely he did.

  I wonder if he planned to come back for Open Day.

  And then realize it’s officially tomorrow. The same day the others are leaving. He could come back to find everyone gone.

  Just Ezra, locked in the infirmary, raging with dementia.

  Or dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

  I flip through the rest of the pages, knowing we have to get going. That we’ve already lost far too much time.

  But feeling like it’s only right that these drawings be seen, admired in Otto’s presence one last time.

  I pause on the page he scribbled on. Was it really just yesterday?

  I know kind eyes. Worried eyes. I see hurt heart.

  There’s a line I didn’t see before at the bottom:

  He loves U
. U know. Dad loved Mom same look. His north always where she was.

  I catch my breath and stare. How did I miss this?

  And then I remember how I turned away when he started writing again, unable to take any more.

  I become aware of Chase behind me.

  “It’s true,” he says, his voice raw. “I love you, Wynter.”

  I glance up at him, closing the sketchbook.

  It’s always been this way between us since he learned about the night Magnus tried to rape me: that I come to Chase. The arm around me invites, but never pulls. His mouth opens in response to mine.

  This time as I slide into the backseat after him, I hesitate, my mouth the span of a whisper from his lips. Close enough to feel their warmth like an electric charge, to taste the breath shuddering between them until his arm tightens around me, closing the distance between us at last.

  • • •

  I ALLOW MYSELF to drowse only a few moments. Because I can almost pretend we’ve stepped out of time to a place where only we exist. Needing the world to fall away.

  And because it physically hurts to move.

  But every minute skipping by costs more than the one before; we can’t afford to loiter.

  Haven’t even discussed a plan.

  I have one.

  A bad one.

  The cicadas are singing again.

  I force myself out of the car. Shield my eyes against the sun as I try to get my bearings, the edge of the city to the east.

  Something isn’t right.

  “Chase.”

  “Yeah,” he says, with forced alertness. He leans through the seats to peer at the dash. “Oh, my God.”

  I pivot and squint directly at the sun shining a minute ago on my back. Search out the gravel road pointing directly toward it.

  The color drains from my face.

  5 P.M.

  * * *

  I whirl around in a panic. Grab Otto’s sketchbook, heart jackhammering to life.

  “Holy—” Chase looks around as though for something he forgot—including his mind. But other than Otto’s book, we literally have nothing except a car we cannot drive.