THE truck tore down the empty highway, tires pumping so viciously I thought they would ricochet off.
I was breathing hard, my eyes glued to the back window of the cab for any sign of pursuit, the baton still lifted defensively in my hands like a sword.
“Are you okay?” Chase asked, tearing his eyes away from the curving highway as often as he could spare a glance. His black hair looked gray, the colors of his clothing subdued, all covered by the same thin gray dust that had blanketed the asphalt. But his eyes, dark with concern, were suddenly familiar. They scanned over my body, intent to see if I’d been harmed.
I didn’t get it. He’d been a soldier, automatic and emotionless, just moments ago. He’d tried to kill that man. He would have, had I not distracted him.
I tried to speak, but my throat was too constricted.
“Your arm? What about your head?” he said.
My shoulders jerked in a shrug. He made a quick reach for the nightstick, and I shied away without thinking, leaving a cloud of gray ash in my wake.
He exhaled sharply. “Okay… I won’t touch you.” One hand raised in surrender before returning to the wheel. The lines of his throat twitched.
No, I did not want him to touch me. Not after those hands had curled around another’s throat.
“Were you going to kill him?” I asked, scarcely louder than a breath. I knew the answer, but I would have given anything for him to tell me the opposite. That I’d misread the situation. That I was blowing it out of proportion. I wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t just as cold-blooded as Morris and Randolph and the other soldiers.
He kept his eyes on the roadway, swerving around the larger pieces of trash that had gathered in slopes against the concrete barriers.
“Chase?” It took great effort to swallow. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow my heart was beating even faster than before.
He didn’t respond.
I began to tremble in abrupt recognition of the chill that swept through me. The baton felt suddenly hot in my freezing grip and I dropped it on the floor. My knees curled into my chest. The bench seat seemed too short; we were crowded too close together.
“C-can you slow down?” Everything was moving too fast. And yet it needed to go fast, otherwise all the terrible and dangerous things were going to catch up. Still, I felt like I was barely hanging on.
He shook his head.
The silence that settled over us did grant me one comforting illusion. It provided distance. As the miles passed, Chase slipped farther and farther away.
AS we exited the Red Zone, it was Chase’s own blood that eventually forced him to pull over. When the sharp twinge of copper permeated the stuffy cab, I remembered that Rick had cut him. The consistent drip of fluid hitting the ribbed upholstery of the seat slowed as the wound on his right shoulder began to clot, but it did not stop completely. I glanced down for only a second, because when I saw how the red smeared on the cracked beige leather, my stomach clamped with worry.
I’d cleared the gravel from the scrapes on my knuckles, but as my fingers kneaded the new jeans that covered my thighs, some of the older wounds reopened, cracking under the pressure I exerted.
My mind kept echoing the same question: What happened back there?
The swing of a shotgun barrel. The glint of light off a sickle-shaped knife. Daddy will take care of you. Shards of a few petrifying minutes that were as clear as if they were still happening. And then struggle.
Recapping this part of the scenario made my chest squeeze inward on itself and my whole body grow cold and clammy. Sometime during that fight the lines between bad and good had become blurred. Reversed.
Not reversed, I reminded myself. Chase had only been trying to protect us. Rick and Stan were still the bad guys.
But I could still see Chase’s detached, furious stare as he’d held Rick’s limp body against the building. No matter how much I told myself he’d been protecting us, I couldn’t be sure. In that moment, he’d forgotten everything. He’d become a machine.
It wasn’t that I was afraid he was going to hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. The old Chase never would have. But the soldier…
Chase killing someone was something I could not be a part of, no matter how perilous it would be without him, no matter what past we’d shared. Whatever part of him was still him, the greater part, the more dangerous part, was always lurking.
By the time we’d passed Winchester, Virginia—a small town still occupied by civilians—I’d made up my mind to leave him.
The semblance of a plan shot through my brain. I still had the change in my sweater pocket from the gas station. I could follow the highway back to Winchester. It was early still, midmorning. I could still reach the carrier on my own before noon.
I had pretty good intuition about people—I would seek out someone trustworthy to help me find a transport station. If it was anything like home, buses left the station at noon on weekdays. Then it was just a matter of blending into the crowds, like I had in high school. Not popular. Not a loner. Middle of the pack. The MM wouldn’t notice me if I kept my head down and didn’t linger too long.
I’d give a new name when I bought the ticket. If they asked for ID, I’d tell them an officer took it during the census, like Chase had told the highway patrolman.
My mom and I had been fending for ourselves all my life. I could manage a short trip to South Carolina, wanted or not.
Near Winchester, I’d asked to stop so that I could use the restroom, but Chase had told me to wait. I’d pointed to the blood dripping from his arm, but instead of tending to the wound, he’d just scrubbed away the puddle with his shirtsleeve.
We crossed into farmland. First rolling fields of fruit-bearing trees, picked clean and nearly camouflaged by the gray dust and the high weeds overtaking them, then corn in equally unattended condition. Abandoned vehicles, red and black with rust and mold, slowed us down. Most were parked off the asphalt, but some had died right in the middle of the lane. Chase eyed them warily as he sped down the highway, looking, I realized, for scavengers hidden in the shadows. Most of the windows in these cars had been broken out and cleared of anything valuable, but that didn’t mean that someone wouldn’t still come treasure hunting.
There was an eerie, graveyardlike silence in this place. A deserted stillness that made my skin crawl. This had been one of the evacuation routes when Baltimore had gone down, or maybe DC. I’d seen it on the news once, years ago after the first attacks, from an aerial view. That was when reporters could still use helicopters, before nonmilitary aircraft were banned from the skies.
The mass evacuation. Then, the streets had been packed with cars and frantic pedestrians, who slept on roadside cots at Red Cross stations when an accident or an overheated vehicle blocked traffic. I remembered the news capturing fights and victims of heat exhaustion. Kids wandering around looking for their parents.
Some of the cities had started to rebuild, but after eight years, this highway had been forgotten.
Chase eased off the pavement onto the bumpy soil and steered around a broken dining room table. Most of the dull yellow stalks immediately off the road had been trampled by scavengers or vehicles too impatient to wait in line during the evacuation. But beyond those there was heavy cover, enough to hide me when I disappeared.
With a pained grunt, Chase slammed the shifter into park.
My anxiety notched higher. It was almost time.
He’d be angry at first; I remembered his begrudged promise to my mother. Hopefully he wouldn’t look too long. After a while he’d probably figure I’d gone to the carrier and be relieved that his burden was lifted. Then he’d go on with his life. Just like he’d done before. He’d lost his military career, but I couldn’t feel guilty about that: The old Chase had never wanted to be drafted anyway. The old Chase had hated the MM.
We both stepped outside from our respective doors. I was moving too cautiously, watching him out of the corner of my eye to see if he was watching me. He jerked the bench seat forward with his good arm, muttering something about a first-aid kit.
Just go. Why was I stalling?
Because it’s your fault he’s this way, a small voice inside of me said. I could rationalize that this was not all true, but the bare fact remained that I could have changed everything.
I could still see him waiting in my driveway beside his motorcycle, the rain dripping from his hair and his chin and his sopping clothes.
Ask me not to go.
His eyes had burned then, so many conflicting emotions, but I’d been only afraid. Afraid that they would come after him and punish him, and that it would be my fault because I couldn’t let him go. Afraid that if I wasn’t strong enough to say good-bye, my mother would be left there alone.
The letter quaked between my trembling fists. I didn’t shelter it from the rain. I wanted those words to wash away, but every reading yielded the same results.
“Chase Jacob Jennings: In accordance with Section One, Article Four of the Moral Statutes of the United States, you are hereby ordered for immediate induction into the Federal Bureau of Reformation. This is your third and final notice.”
The look on his face ripped my heart clean in half.
“One word, Em. That’s all. Tell me you want me to stay.”
If I had, he never would have gone to the draft board. He never would have arrested my mother. I never would’ve known Rick and Stan, Brock or Randolph, Morris. Or what it was like to ache every day for him.
It had begun to rain, just a drop here and there, a tease of the oncoming storm. In the distance I heard the ominous crack of thunder. While he was distracted I reached into the cab and grabbed the chocolate—sustenance should I not immediately find a local soup kitchen.
I had some money, food, and clothing. It was as good as I was going to get with the circumstances as they were.
I looked at Chase one last time. His hair was streaked with sweat, likely from the pain he was in. It brought forth a staggering sense of helplessness, something I knew I could not indulge now.
He’d be all right. He was a survivor. And now I had to be one, too.
“Good-bye,” I said, knowing that my voice was too soft to hear. I forced myself to ignore the sharp pang of regret as I took a step back, away from the truck.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” My voice cracked.
“Go,” he grunted, still consumed with peeling off his shirt. “But stay close.”
I nodded then turned quickly and walked through the rows of corn in a straight line away from the road.
MY plan was to get as far away from the truck as possible before turning parallel to the highway. I walked fast, glancing behind me often to see if Chase was following.
The high yellow stalks surrounded me on all sides, the scent of rotted corn permeating my senses. When I could no longer see any traces of the truck, I made a hard left turn, but the rows weren’t as even in this direction. I had to loop around clumps of plants and weeds to continue my forward momentum. My line ceased to be straight.
I lost my bearings.
The cornstalks were too high, and I continued to cross curving paths left by vehicles, which threw off my sense of direction even more. I looked up, but the sky was a consistent pewter. Even if I knew how to find my way by the placement of the sun, I was at a loss now.
The rain came, soft at first but then with sudden vigor. It clattered off the sheaths of dried corn, growing in volume until I could barely hear my own footsteps as I tromped through the weeds.
I wiped the hair from my face and the pouring water from my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I was reluctant to raise my hood for fear that I’d miss some landmark or clearing that would show me the way back to the road. I spun in a circle, but even my tracks became distorted by the rain. There was no turning back. Everything looked exactly the same.
Panic clawed its way up my spine.
“Pull yourself together,” I said out loud. But I was acutely aware of each passing second. I had to make it to Winchester soon. To catch a bus and find the carrier. I didn’t have time for this.
I could feel my mother slipping away.
Spooked, I began to run, needing to escape from the prison walls that reached two feet above my head. I thrashed my arms to clear the way in front of me, but the plants had sharp edges, which sliced into my exposed skin. Every time I knocked down a stalk, another sprang up in its place.
Slow down, I told myself. Breathe. Think!
But my body didn’t listen. I couldn’t see the highway back to Winchester. I couldn’t even find the truck. The fear stabbed deeper into my chest. I ran on, feeling the sweat mingle with the mocking rain from the sky above. Where was the road?
I fell once, slapping into a puddle of mud that splashed onto my face and into my mouth. I spit out what I could, choking, and ran again.
Finally, I spotted a clearing ahead. Without pause I steered toward it. I didn’t even care if I’d backtracked to the truck, just so long as I figured out where I was. As I drew closer, I could see more clearly and grasped my knees, gasping for breath but exalted that I was no longer alone.
Ahead was a double-wide trailer, the same dull yellow as Rick and Stan’s skin and eyes. It was covered on one corner by a strip of aluminum where the weather had worn down the siding. Below huddled three large plastic drums, transparent enough for me to see the liquid that sloshed within—water, presumably. Several wind chimes swung violently from the front door’s awning. I couldn’t hear them over the pelting rain.
On the square cement step, a woman sat in a rocking chair watching the storm. The sweatpants she wore bagged around her calves, and a knit shawl the color of plums was wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been heavyset at one time but had grown suddenly thin and been left with too much extra skin. I could see such a pouch hanging from her chin, and more on the exposed areas of her forearms. A big yellow Lab lay on the ground beneath her feet.
Behind the house was a car, and behind the car was a gravel driveway.
My spirits lifted. The woman looked friendly enough. She could have been any one of my peers’ mothers, sitting on the porch, waiting for her children to come home from school. Maybe she could give me a ride into town.
Maybe she could give me a ride all the way to the checkpoint.
190 Rudy Lane. I repeated the address over and over in my head.
The butterflies began beating in my stomach. I heard Chase’s voice cautioning me that nowhere was safe. Well, there was only one way to find out.
I emerged from the cornfield into the clearing, fifteen feet away from where the woman sat. She jumped up so quickly she nearly knocked the chair off the step.
“Hello!” I called, walking slowly toward her. I tried to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I’m sorry, I’m a little lost. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”
She had widely spaced eyes and flattened cheeks, which drained of all color as I approached. Her mouth fell open, and she absently went to smooth down her salt-and-pepper hair.
It’s probably been a long time since she’s had surprise guests, I surmised.
“Oh!” she said suddenly, then motioned for me to come closer. “The rain! You’re getting soaked! Come up here!”
I moved cautiously forward toward the front steps. She was smaller than I’d expected, several inches shorter than me. When I was under the awning, she placed a tentative hand on my shoulder and then patted me gently, as though to assure I was real. I became aware of how I must have looked, covered in mud, soaked to the bone. I swiped the back of my hand over my face, hoping I wasn’t too dirty.
I could hear the wind chimes now; they were nearly deafening. I jumped at a particularly loud clang that she seemed not to notice.
“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” she said.
I laughed, or sobbed, one of the two. At the end of it, we were both smiling.
“Sorry, sorry! Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”
I hung by the door as she pushed through. The dog, which had ignored my presence up until now, sniffed my hand lethargically with his whitened muzzle, then padded inside.
I tilted my head in, looking from one end of the compartment to the other—and was blasted with a pungent odor that was so strong it made my eyes water. A cloud of flies swarmed through the tepid room, and the buzzing, combined with the clanging of the chimes and the downpour, made my head hurt.
It was a mess. Dirty dishes were stacked in the tiny metal sink and spilled over the countertop. Tissues and cloths of all colors and sizes were strewn across the compact table. On the bed at the far right end there was barely enough room cleared for one person to sleep.
The woman sorted through the dishes, probably searching for a clean cup. Finally she gave up and shrugged, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her over the noise. “I’m really not that thirsty. I was wondering if you might be able to give me a ride. I’ve got family in Harrisonburg,” I added. The smell was so strong I had to take a step back.
The woman shuffled over to me and reached for my hand. It was warm and soft against mine, but I started at the contact. I was glad that she didn’t appear to sense my unease. I didn’t want to appear rude while asking for a favor.
“You can’t go now, sweetie. Not with this weather. Please come in.”
“Actually, they’re expecting me,” I tried to smile. “I’m sure they’re worried.”
Against my better judgment I took one step inside, suddenly aware of all four walls. The room was too small for both of us, the dog, and all this clutter. I could feel the stifling air sticking to my throat as I tried to swallow. Unconsciously, I began to tug my hand back.
“I’m sorry about the mess. Things have been so hard since Dad’s been gone.” Her lower lip quivered, sending rippling waves through the loose skin connecting her chin to her collarbone.
I couldn’t picture this woman living with a full-grown man in such a crowded compartment. I wondered where her father had slept. Hopefully not in bed with her.
“I’m sorry about your loss….” I stopped, eyes growing wide.
What had been hidden behind a coatrack when I’d stood outside was now visible. An animal carcass, maybe three feet long, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The source of the sickening stench. It had been dripping blood onto the floor, which the dog was now slowly licking at. The thing—whatever it was—had been skinned and was turning a bluish white. Flies and maggots covered one side that had gone completely rotten. I tasted the sharp bite of vomit in my mouth and struggled to swallow it down.
“They shut off the water you know. Power, too. I get some supplies from old John’s place, but, well…” She batted a hand in front of her face, not sensing my discomfort in the least. “None of that matters now that you’re here.”
“I… um…” I turned to look at the door, feeling her hand tighten around mine.
“I like your hair that way,” the woman said. She moved closer to me, and I automatically stepped back.
“You… like…” I began, still too distressed by the dead animal hanging in what appeared to be her living room to finish. The dog continued to lick at the spot that had stained the patch of linoleum peeking through the dust.
“Oh, yes. I always told you it would look better short, didn’t I?”
Of all the things that had sent alarm bells ringing through my head since my arrival, this was the comment that scared me the most. It took everything I had not to push her down and run out the door.
“Miss… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” I started, jerking my hand away and bumping into the coatrack.
“Alice, you know I hate it when you say that. Call me Mother, please.”
“Mother…”
“That’s right, sweetie.”
It became explicitly clear that this woman did not intend to let me leave.
“No, I mean, I’m not Alice. You don’t understand. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.” I turned to the exit. The woman moved with surprising dexterity, shoving her body in front of me and latching both fists around the doorframe.
“Let me go,” I said, voice trembling. The flies clouded the air between us. The stink was rising as I became more frightened. I could barely stop myself from gagging.
“Sweetie, is this because of Luke? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about him. But I told you. They shut off the power and the water. The corn’s gone dry, and there’s not much food that old John doesn’t need for his family. I had to kill him, Alice. I know you loved him, but I was starving,” she rattled frantically. Her face had gone white again, and all the empty skin quaked.
“That’s a person?” I screeched, glancing against my better judgment at the carcass hanging from the ceiling. I gagged again.
“Luke? That’s your puppy! Don’t you remember? Oh, Alice, we’ll find you another, I promise.” Tears filled her eyes. She was genuinely upset that she had hurt me. Or Alice.
The sound of the dog licking up the spoiled residue on the floor pushed me over the edge. I tried to cover my mouth with my hand, but it was too late. I vomited all over the floor.
The woman stepped cautiously from the door and grabbed a towel. With a mother’s kindness, she dabbed my mouth. It smelled as sick as the rest of the room. I weakly pushed her back. My knees were wobbling now, and my head spun. I focused on the open door before me, and the cool, fresh air of freedom.
“I have to go,” I told her.
“No, Alice. We’re okay now. You came back to me, and we’re going to be okay,” she crooned. She lifted an arm around my shoulder for comfort. I jerked away from her touch, stepping on the dog’s tail. He barked viciously, snarling at me.
“Max!” the woman screamed. He returned to his slow work cleaning the floor.
“My friend is waiting,” I tried. My throat burned from the bile, and my eyes were now streaming. The little room was spinning. Shrinking.
“No, dear. Mother’s your only friend,” she soothed again.
I pushed shakily past her, and in an effort to stop me, she wound her arms around my waist. A snake constricting her prey.
“Now, Alice…”
“Let go!” I shouted, and as we began to struggle, my strength returned. Some small part of me knew I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was going to if she didn’t let me through that door this instant.
“Alice! Please!” the woman begged laboriously between sobs.
Finally, I grasped the doorframe, pulling myself forward. At the first whiff of humid air, I renewed my efforts, gasping in breaths. She only tightened her grip. Something metal clanged as it fell off the countertop. The wind chimes smacked against each other in chaotic cacophony.
Get out! my mind ordered.
I bent my knee and, like a donkey, kicked her as hard as I could in the shin. With a cry she released her hold and fell onto the floor.
I turned, suddenly fearing that I’d hurt her badly. To my horror, she curled up on the dirty linoleum in the tufts of dog hair and trash and began to weep. The Labrador moved from licking the blood to licking her face.
“What’s going on?” asked a male voice. One I had never in my life been so happy to hear.
I spun toward Chase, probably appearing crazy myself. His face was grim but otherwise unreadable. Sensing the urgency, he grabbed my arm and jerked me out the door. I tripped over the chair but righted myself and ran, pausing at the edge of the field when he didn’t follow. He had hesitated in the doorway, blocking the woman from coming after me.
I swallowed mouthfuls of fresh air, thankful for the rain striking my face. My stomach was still knotted. How could I have been so stupid as to step inside her house? How could I have thought she would have helped me? My plan and my prized intuition were useless. The world outside of my hometown was as foreign as an alien planet.
Thunder cracked, and a white fork of lightning stabbed across the sky.
“Can’t you Bureau bastards just leave her alone?” the woman shrieked at Chase. I could see her through the open doorway as Chase jogged away. She was still on the floor, her sagging arms wrapped around her chest.
“Hurry!” I motioned to him. My knees were knocking hard, the stench and the sound of buzzing flies still fresh in my memory.
“Alice!” the woman wailed. “I’m sorry about Luke! Alice!”
There was a moment where I was torn between fear, pity, revulsion, and the guilt that my mere presence had upset her fragile mental balance. Then the woman screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that ended in a gargling sob, and I ran blindly into the cornfield.
CHASE led the way, moving fast. It didn’t take long for me to realize he’d marked his path by cornstalks bent at right angles. Clever, I thought fleetingly.
After several minutes he slammed to a halt, grabbed me hard around the shoulders, and gave me a firm shake.
“Don’t do that again!” he reprimanded. “I told you to stay close!”
Then he turned just as unexpectedly and plowed onward. I could hear him tossing indecipherable comments over his shoulder, but he didn’t glance back.
I did. I searched our path, panicked, convinced the woman was ready to do whatever it took to retrieve me. I jogged to catch up.
“Crazy lady probably hasn’t been off her property in months,” he was saying. “Why’d she call you Alice, anyway? And who’s Luke?”
It was as if he’d pulled the trigger on a loaded gun. I pitched forward onto my hands and knees and heaved. Black spots appeared before my vision as the spasms raked my body. I could still smell the dead, rotting animal. I could taste it in my mouth.
Chase stopped. The anger he had been directing my way replaced itself with alarm, and he knelt beside me.
“She thought I was her daughter, Alice,” I gasped, spitting. “Luke was the dog. She butchered him.”
“That explains the smell,” he said.
“Come on! She’s following us!” I groaned. We were a good distance away from the trailer, but I could feel her presence on me, her arms winding around my body. When I tried to stand, I stumbled again. The rain seemed to bore me straight into the ground.
“No she’s not. She’s gone,” he said in a hushed tone. A gentle hand was placed on my back—a test, I knew, after I’d shied away from him earlier. I didn’t shake him off; his touch was oddly reassuring. His dark eyes probed mine, searching for the details of what had transpired in his absence.
“Help me up.” I didn’t care if he saw me crying, if he could even tell through the rain. I just wanted to get out of there.
Without a word, he slid an arm behind my knees and lifted me, cradling me against his chest like a child. I watched the rain pool on my jacket at the bend of my waist and gave myself, for the moment, to lightness.
“At least this way you won’t get lost,” he said dryly.
But I was lost. The lines between danger and safety were blurring.
A FEW minutes later, the truck appeared through the cornfield. It was a bitter reminder of my failure to escape, but I still felt a flood of relief at the sight of it.
“Put me down,” I said, wriggling out of his arms. Though my strength hadn’t fully returned, I needed the distance. His presence had too quickly become a comforting shield; one I wasn’t sure which side to be on.
He paused, as if he were reluctant to let me go, but then he set me down abruptly. The second I was out of his arms he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. When we were close enough to the car, he reached around me and opened the door. As if I would just get in. As if we could pretend that nothing had happened.
“Are you all right?” he asked, registering the fury that flew across my face.
I had vomit coating my mouth and my hands. I had mud and wet hair plastered to my face. Every inch of me was streaming with cold water. I’d just been accosted by an insane woman while trying to escape a guy who’d nearly killed an armed robber. And that was just since this morning. No, I was definitely not “all right.”
I slammed the door shut. His brows rose in surprise.
“I was leaving, you idiot!” I shouted over the rattle of the rain hitting the truck’s metal hood. “I didn’t get lost—not on purpose. I ran away!”