by Megan Lynch
“We’ve got a long way to go,” Miss Shepherd reminded him in her teacher voice as Nan left. She sat beside Jude’s feet on the sofa. “Just take it slow.”
“Kopecky thought he had time too,” he said in a sharp voice he didn’t recognize. “We may not have as much time as we think, Miss Shepherd.”
“You can call me Samara now, if you like.” She picked up the book Nan had been reading from. “Chapter six?”
Jude nodded and fell back into his pillows, which had gone flat under his back.
“Hold on,” said Lydia before Samara could start. She turned to Bristol. “Are you the Hope?”
Bristol, Samara, and Jude all turned their heads, unsure of the question’s target. Jude asked, “The what?”
“The Hope.” Her eyes were on Bristol. “I saw you working on that.” She nodded toward the stack of papers turned down on the table where Samara was sitting. Bristol lunged, but Samara got there first. When she unfolded the paper, Jude looked over her shoulder: it was a pencil drawing of Samara reading aloud. At least he thought it was Samara: there was outline of her body, vague but unmistakable, hunched, as she must have been when Bristol began sketching, and the light strokes of the pencil somehow perfectly reflected how the candles were flickered against the darkness. The movement of the candlelight—it was the same movement Jude had seen in the graffiti on the wall the night he was arrested: the blood dripping from the woman's hand.
“Is that what they’re calling him now?” asked Samara, still surveying the drawing, still letting her eyes dance on the page along to the music that was that flickering light. “The Hope?”
“Only in certain circles,” answered Lydia. “So, is it you? Are you the one gracing our fair city’s walls with your graffiti?”
Bristol swallowed. “No.”
“No?”
“Well, I mean, I paint. But I’m not…what you said. I can’t be the only one doing this.”
“No, I think you are,” said Lydia. “Nan and I keep up with these things. They usually catch graffiti artists quick. I mean, they always say they catch someone, but the poor souls who actually go to jail over them are more than likely innocent bystanders. Wrong place, wrong time. You can tell when they’ve caught the real artist when the paintings stop. And yours haven’t.” She paused and eyed Bristol. “So, are you? This sure looks like the same work.”
Jude’s insides flashed cold. He slowly turned to Bristol, every cell in his body screaming injustice. “You.”
“I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
“Too late for that!” Jude yelled, holding up the stump of his wrist. “And some of us are dead! My friend died this week for something he didn’t do—he got caught up with people like you, people who don’t care who lives and who dies, who just want to go on doing what they like! Painting pictures!”
“Bristol’s not the one who sent you to prison, Jude.” Samara’s voice was calm, but her posture was fierce. “You were sent there because they didn’t understand you and didn’t want to. They didn’t know how to measure your value, and so they thought you didn’t have any. You and Bristol have a lot more in common than you think.”
Jude stewed, his only fist clenched on his lap. “I wouldn’t do something, even if I loved it, knowing it could get someone hurt. There’s no reason to do something so dumb.”
“You’d be surprised what art can do, young man.” Lydia smiled and rocked harder in her chair. “Art can tell us the truth, draw back the curtain, expose the lives we’ve been living—and the lives we wish we lived. No, they don’t like art, not at Metrics. And they don’t want us to like it, either. They want us to like games and money and promotions and new things for our houses. They want us to like the art they print and sell and put in frames for our walls. Pictures of flowers and celebrities. They know that if enough people like art—real art, art that educates them, comforts them, inspires them—then it’s all over.”
Jude licked his lips. “So why not end it?”
“Sorry?” Bristol asked.
“If your art inspires people, why not paint something that will inspire them to overthrow Metrics? Paint history, what we learned here! Paint the pink people killing the brown people. Paint a map that shows Canada. Tell them about this whole mess, and we can start to build a movement!”
Bristol rested his elbows on his knees and ran a thumb over his fingertips. “That’s not why I do it, Jude.”
“Why wouldn’t you do that? What can be more important?”
“I just do it…so I know I exist.”
Everyone considered this in a beat. Jude got the feeling he wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand. “What?”
Bristol fidgeted. “Creating these things…even if I hate them afterward…it lets me know that I’m really here. The act of creating is what does it, not the end result. I usually hate the end result.”
“But you still put them on buildings for everyone to see,” said Jude. “Your personal thoughts, blown up on buildings—you must not hate them that much.”
“Hate isn’t the right word. I know that they’re imperfect, but not letting anyone see them seems unfair to them and to the time I spent letting myself know I’m really here.”
“I don’t think proving your own existence is a good enough reason to do it. Can’t you just paint one picture?” Jude heard the whine of a child in his own voice. “For the greater good?”
“Listen to what you’re asking. The whole of Metrics was conceived for ‘the greater good.’ I don’t want to build a movement. I just want to be in a place where I can be myself. Up until this point, that place has been in my notebook or on a brick wall.”
Samara looked up at him. “If you think that makes you a hero, it doesn’t.”
Bristol wilted visibly.
“I knew it was you. Your murals made me think about things I wanted to ignore. It made me brave. But now—knowing you only did it to make yourself feel important—well, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Samara—”
“No, listen. I shouldn’t be surprised because I knew it was you and I thought you were trying to protect me by not telling me. Jude’s got a point. I was willing to defend you when I thought you were painting things so others would think about them, but I can’t condone what you’ve done knowing it was just to benefit yourself. I took a chance for you. You nearly got us killed. Both of us.” She nodded to Jude.
Bristol closed his eyes and didn’t speak.
Nan’s radio crackled and all heads turned to listen. It was very touchy, this radio, and somehow it helped to look at it. It crackled again, and they could hear Nan’s unintelligible voice behind the static. It sounded urgent but not afraid. A word like mother, or other…
Lydia stiffened. “Cover.”
“What does it mean?” asked Samara.
“It means they’re coming here. It means hide.”
Lydia flew to the bookshelf and felt for something between the shelves. When she found it, she curled her fingers and pulled. Part of the bookshelf opened like a door, narrowly and quietly, so as not to disturb the books it had been tasked with holding up. Behind the door that looked like a bookshelf was a small opening like a closet, with just enough room for the three runaways. Bristol put his hands on Samara and guided her into the space, but she broke away and reached for Jude. Seeing her reach for him, Jude had the thought that Samara was getting bigger by the hour, and he was getting smaller. He thought of his mother, how big she’d always seemed, larger than life, and missed her despite his certainty that she wouldn’t have reached for him in the way Samara did. Lydia drew a breath and closed the bookshelf, leaving the three engulfed in darkness.
Lydia’s boots paced back and forth, and Jude noted where she was in the room by the pendulum pattern of resonance of the wooden floor and the shush of the worn woven rug. After what seemed a long time, the pacing stopped. Then it started again. Her feet were just about to begin another round of shushing when there was a piercing rap on the
door. Not the front door, but the door to the back room.
“Hello?” Lydia answered.
And that was all. No explanation, no scream. Just a sweet and inquiring “Hello?” and Lydia’s voice was gone, accompanied only by the sick notion they’d never hear it again. What they did hear, however, were the sounds of the room being destroyed. They heard the mirrors being broken, the furniture being thrown down, and finally, the books on the shelves being violently hurled across the room. With every pitch, Jude’s body flinched until he felt Samara’s reassuring hand on his right shoulder and Bristol’s on his left. He turned around to bury himself in their embrace and realized they’d been holding hands. They broke and held on to him and each other tightly as war waged just inches away.
And then, without words, there was a murderously thick sound next to them, on the far end of the naked bookshelf.
“Ax,” Bristol whispered.
Desperately, Jude looked around in search for a miracle. “What’s that?” he whispered back, pointing to the wall behind them.
Samara reached up and touched the mysterious rectangle. “I don’t know, but we might be able to go through it.”
Bristol pried open the grate, and they wordlessly lifted Jude into the small space. It was a sort of metal tunnel, which, with any luck, would lead them away from the rampage. He had no time to wish he’d read more about historical architecture to understand what a thing like this was doing in a house or to wonder whether Samara and Bristol would fit in this small space after him. He only knew he had to do his best to sprint, on his knees and his one hand, toward the unknown. His speed surprised him, and soon he came upon another opening into what looked like a bedroom. He turned around to see Samara and Bristol behind him.
“Go,” whispered Samara.
He pushed open the grate and landed on what had to be Nan’s gigantic bed. He knew it was hers just as surely as he knew it had been purposely placed there for just such an escape.
“Window,” he said when the others were down. He could smell something burning in the back of the house as smoke wafted through the opening they’d just come from.
They climbed out the window and ran into the forest, which seemed to open its arms in a dark welcome.
Chapter Thirty-One
Samara was panicking. “Why didn’t they see us?” She was still panting from their run into the woods. “Why didn’t they follow us?”
“Because they weren’t people,” answered Jude simply, and then he laughed. “I’m sorry—does it seem funny to you that we’ve survived this long? They’ve had so many chances!” He laughed again.
Bristol and Samara exchanged looks.
“No, no,” said Jude. “I know about this one. My mom works in the Department for Defensive Robotics. They build these robots for situations that might be dangerous for people to be in and they only give them one or two specific purposes, a very clear mission—to cut down on unintended consequences. They knew Lydia was there, but I don’t think they knew we were, They must have had instructions to remove Lydia and to destroy the safe house.”
“Remove?” asked Samara.
They were silent for a moment, and then Bristol took a step toward Samara. “I think we should probably…”
Jude tried to finish for him. “Move forward, assuming Lydia and Nan are…”
“They must have known about the network. The other safe houses might be in danger,” Samara finished.
“We have to get to Canada,” Bristol said.
Jude laughed again, more cynically this time. “Without watches or even a radio? Even a paper map could be helpful. Why didn’t we think to look for one in a book while we had them?”
Samara thought of the books a moment, and of the candles and the soft quilts at the place that no longer existed. She shook off the memory. “Well, we didn’t. And we have to get there. So what now?”
Jude sniffed. “The Red Sea. There have to be other safe houses somewhere.”
No one said what they all knew to be true. They had no way of finding them, if they had existed in the first place and survived the relocation efforts. Instead, the three of them walked a long time in the aging forest, moving slowly to avoid snapping the twigs on the ground. The trees seemed to offer a primal protection from human surveillance, covering them with dark shade and occasionally spilling streams of sunlight on their feet. Samara watched her feet move along the forest floor and allowed herself to be hypnotized by the shades of green and brown.
Bristol broke the spell as he stopped and pointed to some large rocks in the distance. When they approached them, they found a flowing stream and a small cave.
“We can hide here until someone comes to find us.”
Jude’s voice was quick and high-pitched. “How would someone find us? Nan deactivated our chips.”
“I don’t mean Metrics. I mean others who are looking for the Red Sea.”
“And how would they find us?” asked Samara.
“I’m going to draw some pictures. Make some signs.”
Samara shook her head. “Is that…wise?”
“How else are we going to find the safe houses?”
Bristol went to work. Samara could hear the pride in his voice as he instructed Jude on how to make a fire.
“Who taught you this?” Jude asked.
“Denver,” he replied. “She was in the Girl Survivor League when we were kids.”
When Samara asked who Denver was, however, Bristol simply cleared his throat, bowed his head, and walked away to gather more sticks. The flames were small, but Bristol kept them alive. He picked out the charred pieces and mixed them with water to create a thick black paste. Then he put out the fire, dipped his finger in the paste, and stood in front of the wide rock at the mouth of the cave.
Samara watched as he shifted his weight from side to side. He made careful lines first, and then filled in the spaces with lightness in his hand. He cocked his head to the side as if trying to see something invisible, then moved his arm up and down on the rock. He worked until dark, until the star-made shadows completely covered his work. He stood back and crossed his arms.
“What is it?” Samara asked.
“It’s…a rock.” said Jude.
It certainly was. Far from actually drawing anything with the ashes, Bristol had only accentuated the natural shadows and lines on the stone, making it appear more like a stage prop than something found in nature.
“See these lines here? And here?” Bristol gestured to the top lefthand corner. “These aren’t natural shadows. Especially tomorrow afternoon, it’ll look all wrong. Hopefully it’ll be enough to catch a human’s eye…”
“But it won’t be obvious enough to get the attention of any drones that might fly overhead.” Jude’s smile was wide and his eyes, focused on Bristol, glittered. “Brilliant!”
Bristol looked at Samara, perhaps expecting her to echo the compliment. She only looked down. “Let’s just see if it works.”
The next day, they caught fish for breakfast. Though none of them had ever eaten meat before—it was punishable under Metrics—they were hungry enough to try the techniques they’d only seen in old movies. Cowboys would grab swimming fishes with their bare hands, roast them over an open fire, and eat them as if it were the easiest thing in the world. In reality, these tasks took the three of them the better part of two hours, and when they had eaten, their stomachs growled for more.
“Why don’t they teach us survival skills in school?” Jude asked Samara.
“Maybe they hope we’ll never need them,” Samara answered.
“Or make it harder for us if we do,” Bristol said with a glum look at his rock.
Samara’s eyes were suddenly wide. “Shh!”
They were suddenly as silent and still as the forest. Then they heard the sound of humans. Leaves rustling, faint conversation. Bristol stamped on the feeble fire, and they hid in the cave.
“Where are they coming from?” asked Samara.
“Just around
those trees. We’ll see them in a second,” Bristol answered.
Samara saw, among the twisting branches growing skyward, a couple walking along the stream. The young woman walked in front of the man, and they were chatting in light, easy tones.
“Do you think they’re—”
Before Samara could finish her sentence, Bristol ran for the girl and they crashed into each other with a tight embrace.
“I knew we’d find you,” she said hoarsely.
The young man stepped forward. “We saw the smoke and then the rock,” He regarded Bristol, then turned to Samara. “I’m Stephen. This is my wife, Denver.”
Samara looked again at Denver and knew the shape of her body and face and hair. Something blue.
“My sister,” Bristol choked as he roughly wiped a tear.
“I’m Samara, and this is Jude.”
“I know. I’ve heard so much about you,” answered Denver, like a guest at a dinner party.
Samara glanced at Bristol, whose cheeks were just beginning to turn a shade of red when Samara had another thought.
“How did you get away?
“Oh, that turned out to be much easier than we expected,” said Denver.
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Maybe for you.”
“Well, we did have to make Stephen sick enough for the hospital so we’d both have a place to be that wasn’t work or home. We checked in, they gave Stephen fluids, and then when we left, we just put our watches on the trains going downtown and Stephen took us here.” Denver grew breathless and turned her eyes up to Stephen’s smiling face. “If they check in on us, they’ll still find us riding around on the train—around and around. We hid out for a couple of days in another safe house closer to town. I didn’t realize how sick he’d really be.”
“I’ll live. And of course, they’ll be on to us by now.” Stephen frowned. “I take it Nan’s place is no longer in operation?”
