“So how is it out there?” I doubted much had changed in the few days we’d been away from the cities, but if anything big had happened, we wouldn’t have known. Our CB radio wasn’t strong enough to eavesdrop on any FBR frequencies, and there wasn’t a news station reporting close enough to pick up a signal. It was easy to feel disconnected out here in the Red Zone.
“Oh, you know,” he said. “No one wants to starve in peace and quiet. They’ve all got to moan and groan about it.”
“Then maybe they should come with you,” I said. Join the resistance. Stop complaining and do something.
“Ha,” he said dryly. “Then what would they have to whine about?”
The truth was few people fought the MM because they were scared. It took something big—something like reform school, and losing your mother—to push through the fear to anger. That was when you could fight back.
“We went through this place yesterday, though that was different,” Tucker continued. “They had a sign at the front of the street that said, get this, it was a ‘compliant neighborhood.’ It was like they were proud of it or something. The place looked good—what we saw of it anyway. Nice-looking houses. We even saw a bunch of little kids in school uniforms.”
A compliant neighborhood? I wanted to gag. I wondered if they were bigots or just liars. How could a community embrace the Statutes? It baffled me, got under my skin. If everyone knew the MM was executing people for violations to their precious moral rules, they wouldn’t be so quick to boast their pride. Unless they were scared of course.
I changed the subject. “How are the others? Tired of driving?” The carriers used aliases, but I wouldn’t risk saying even those aloud.
“Fine. They’re just … visiting with old friends. We should get to Grandma’s house tomorrow. We already crossed over the river.” He snorted. “Now we just have to get through the woods.”
Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go.
I smirked at his chosen code name for the first post and sagged against the wall. They’d made it over the Red Zone border. At least that much was going right. Rebecca, who’d turned to watch the street, glanced back over her shoulder.
“My mom used to sing that song,” I said. She’d loved the holidays. For a moment, I could smell the pungent pine air fresheners she would spray around Christmastime to make the house smell “festive.”
I didn’t know what I was thinking, bringing her up now. If not for him, she’d still be here.
“Mine too,” he said.
I wrapped the coiled cord absently around my finger, picturing a woman singing to a young boy. It was tough to imagine that someone had loved Tucker like my mother had loved me. I wondered if she was alive. If she was proud of him. If she could forgive everything he’d done because he was her son. I stared at the radio, wishing I’d missed the call after all, but somehow unable to end it at the same time.
“What about you?” he asked. “Find what you were looking for?”
The concern in his tone took me by surprise.
“Not yet,” I said, stifling the sudden urge to tell him I was beginning to think we were wasting our time. “We’re going to keep looking.”
He was quiet for a while.
“I’ll call back tonight around curfew. We should be at Grandma’s by then.”
Curfew was at dusk. He was farther west than us, but it should have been around the same time.
“We’ll be here.” I clicked the button one more time. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
The light switched from green to red.
* * *
BY the time we caught up with the others, they’d cleared the main drag of the next small town and had begun their initial search of the area. We entered the street behind a two-pump gas station that had been closed in the War, and took shelter from the rain in a small diner that had been stripped clean and now served as a home to a family of raccoons. The radio felt like it weighed a hundred pounds over my shoulder. I was ready to pass it on.
The seating area had been almost completely cleared out, and what was left showed evidence of riots. Only charred skeletons remained of the booths along the walls, and the vinyl floor was blackened and heaped with shattered glass and firewood. It had been a long time since I’d been to a restaurant—during the War, before my mom had lost her job. I couldn’t remember what kind of food we’d eaten, but whatever it was they’d brought too much, and we’d sent back half. Such a waste.
My eyes landed on three faded hash marks, scratched into the wooden counter, and immediately I thought of Three, the mysterious head of the resistance that oversaw the smaller branches, the group that was supposed to help us organize against the MM. Sean had told us about it at the Wayland Inn in Knoxville. Rumor was Three was supposed to operate out of the safe house. If they had, they were gone like the rest of it, along with any hope for change.
I stared at the marks again, wondering when they’d been made. Wondering if they were just scratches or something more.
The flimsy kitchen door hung by one clasp, and when I pushed inside, a twisted jungle gym of overturned tables and rusted wires was revealed. A line of cabinets were anchored on the wall. The doors were all open, the insides gutted what looked to be a long time ago. If there had been any survivors from the safe house, they wouldn’t have gotten any help here.
“Why don’t you rest,” I told Rebecca, sitting now on a round seat fastened in front of the bar. “I’ll come back and get you before we move on.”
“I’m fine,” she said in the same petulant tone Billy had used with me earlier that morning. Then, with a pointed look, she rose and backed through the exit.
I resolved to stop trying to be helpful.
The rain had begun slashing sideways, bending the tall palm trees that were already weighted by dead, untrimmed fronds. I stomped my feet; slowing down had spiked a chill straight to my bones. There was something haunting about this place. The salt in the air and the white sand on the asphalt. The heady combination of mold and wild, tropical plants. It was nothing like home.
We kept to the side of the main street, searching for some sign of the others, but they must have gone farther than I’d anticipated. Chase had to be somewhere close; he never would have disappeared without me. Had I been alone, I would have hurried—the wind was less forgiving as the clustered shops gave way to widely spaced homes—but Rebecca was confined to a shuffle.
Down the road something moved, its true shape indistinguishable through the rain. At first I thought it was one of our companions, hunched over a trash can or a discarded piece of furniture, but as we neared the dark shape broke apart into pieces and started creeping in our direction.
“What is that?” Rebecca had lifted her hand to block the rain.
Animals. I didn’t know what kind. I squinted only long enough to see they’d picked up their pace before the instinct to bolt raged through me.
“Let’s go.” I tried to sound calm, but my voice pitched with urgency.
Rebecca couldn’t run, so I ducked under her arm, half carrying, half dragging her toward the nearest shelter: a small, one-story home tucked back on a long strip of property. Her body tensed, making it harder to hold on to, and when we hit the gravel drive, I slipped and we tumbled to the ground. The radio, still in the bag, swung off my shoulder and out of my grasp. Rebecca shrieked; her crutches detached from her arms, flung into the brick siding of a one-car garage with a clang. From behind me came a growl, then the gnash of teeth. Desperation pierced through the buzzing in my brain. We weren’t going to make it to the door.
A cross between a scream and a sob burst from her throat as she suddenly jerked backward. She clawed into the gravel, arms working frantically to propel her body forward.
“Rebecca!” I swiped her hand but she was yanked out of reach again.
Blood pumping, I scrambled up and lunged for the crutches. My fingers found an edge of metal and I spun around, brandishing i
t before me like a blade. Beyond its protection were our attackers—dogs, domestic once, but now feral, bone-thin, and pockmarked with scabs. Their leader, a split-eared German shepherd, stalked us in a low crouch, fangs bared and snarling. Another had sunk his teeth in Rebecca’s pant leg and was shaking his head from side to side as if trying to tear the limb free. The fabric ripped, and she heaved herself under me.
Without another thought, I hauled back and swung the crutch as hard as I could. It connected with a crack to the side of the leader’s head, eliciting a pained yelp and then a moan so pathetic it made my jaw ache. The growls from the others ceased, and in those seconds something wound in the back of my shirt and yanked me away.
Chase’s chest pressed against my back, and over my shoulder his arm stretched out, pointing a gun in the direction of the dogs. His other arm wound around my waist and before I could find my balance he was dragging me up the porch steps. Sean was already there with Rebecca, and when I glanced back into the driveway, I saw the other crutch half submerged in a muddy puddle of water. The dogs were gone, as if they’d never been there in the first place.
I shook myself from Chase’s hold and fell to my knees beside Rebecca. The house shielded us from the wind, the awning from the sky, and as the tremors faded I realized I had become a sponge, unable to hold any more water. It dripped off me from the tips of my hair to my matted lashes, from my elbows and my fingertips and the jeans that now stuck to my legs.
Chase surveyed me carefully, but his eyes widened as they lowered, and he purposefully looked away. Quickly, I pulled the shirt away from my skin, realizing it was now painted on, the outline of my bra as clear as a print on the fabric.
“The radio,” I said with a wince. “I dropped it.” I hoped it wasn’t broken. Chase nodded and went to find it before I could make my trembling legs move down the steps.
“Did it bite you?” Sean was feeling his way down Rebecca’s leg, but she slapped his hand away as he neared the ankle. The denim that had been torn away revealed the heavy plastic supports she wore beneath her pants.
“It didn’t break the skin,” she said. Her face was pale as death, her eyes still roaming over the yard searching for the pack of dogs.
Chase bent to retrieve the crutch, which now bowed like a tree in the wind. Guilt swamped through me. Walking was hard enough for my roommate when both of her crutches were in working order.
He glanced warily at Sean, who looked at the bowed metal like it had just crushed his hopes and dreams. But instead of being upset, Rebecca clasped her hands over her mouth, and began to giggle hysterically.
I tried to keep my face even, but after a moment the same crazy laughter bubbled up inside of me, too.
“Sorry,” I managed. I tried to hold my breath. I didn’t know what was so funny.
After a shared look of confusion with Sean, Chase went to bring back the radio and other crutch.
“If you wanted a puppy, you should have just told me,” muttered Sean as he started reshaping the one I’d bent.
Chase’s brow was furrowed as he returned to the porch. He handed Rebecca the metal brace and removed the radio from the bag. The metal box now had a dent in the top, but the red light was still flashing, and the cord for the microphone was still connected. I sighed, relieved.
“It was my fault, going so far ahead. We’ll stick together from now on,” Chase said, tucking the radio back inside the bag.
I forced my mouth to straighten. “I had it covered.”
“Yes,” he said with a reluctant smirk. “You did.”
Rebecca cleared her throat. “We were so far behind because the other team called.”
Chase looked to me, brows raised. While I told them what Tucker and I had discussed, he watched me closely, seeming to read my reactions more than listen to my words. I didn’t tell him I’d brought up my mom; I didn’t have to. He knew the conflict I faced every time I spoke to Tucker.
“Well, that sounds awkward,” said Sean.
“Thanks,” I said. He gave a short chuckle and threw his arm around my shoulder, just for a second until he caught Rebecca’s hurt expression and quickly stepped away. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him touch her so easily and couldn’t.
When my pulse had finally slowed, and Rebecca was back on her feet—if somewhat crookedly—I followed the others inside. It seemed strange that they didn’t have to break the lock. It was the first house we’d come across where the door was already open.
Even in the rain the stench that burst from within was unbearable. I hiked up the collar of my shirt around my nose, fighting the urge to throw up, and tried not to think about the oil spill on the beach.
The front living room was completely preserved in its original state, evoking such a strong pang of nostalgia my chest clenched. The couch may have been covered by a thin skin of dust, but the pillows were still at perfect angles, and on the coffee table in front of it were three pre-War magazines, the pages warped and faded, but still readable.
I could imagine a steaming mug of Horizons hot chocolate on the table.
A wax candle, flame flickering.
My mother, toes curled under the back cushion.
I was vaguely aware of Chase, rifling through the kitchen, and the sound of drawers opening and closing.
I picked up one of the magazines and flipped through the pages, looking at the pictures of happy women, sexy women, clad in swimsuits and revealing clothes the FBR would later ban as immoral. There were articles on the pages; I didn’t read them, just scanned the print. It had been so long since I’d read something not sanctioned by the MM.
* * *
“WHERE’D you get that?”
My mother grinned, her eyes bright with mischief. She flipped through the pages of the worn magazine as though she was really interested, not just trying to get a rise out of me.
“Might have picked it up from one of the ladies at the soup kitchen.” She pursed her lips.
“Might have,” I repeated with a frown. “You know we’ve got an inspection coming up.” The MM hadn’t been through in almost a month. We were running on borrowed time. Every day this week I’d checked the house before and after school to make sure nothing contraband was lying around.
“Oh, live a little,” she said, rolling up the magazine and smacking me on the arm. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff they used to write in these things.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
Her smile was triumphant. “Oh, you know. Just your run-of-the-mill treason.”
* * *
MAKEUP tips. Gossip about movie stars. And sometimes mixed in, political stories about the rise of the Federal Bureau of Reformation. Concerns about President Scarboro’s moral platform, and what that meant for women’s rights and religious freedom. The writers snuck those stories in between glamorous photo shoots and new fashions. They never advertised them on the front covers. They must have known the danger of what they were writing, even then.
“What are you looking at?” Rebecca asked.
I fought the sudden urge to keep it for myself and take it with me. The memories were too sharp: going home after the arrest, learning that all my things had been taken by the MM. My best friend Beth had managed to snag only a few items—one of my mother’s magazines that we’d later lost in the tunnels in Chicago among them. It seemed wrong to take this now, when it could mean so much to someone who might one day come back.
Still, it hurt to hand it over to Rebecca.
I winced at the tracks my boots left over the carpet and wandered down the hallway toward the back rooms, bypassing the kitchen.
The bedroom door squeaked as I pushed it open. Just inside was an antique wooden dresser, covered with a doily and a small silver comb. I cringed at my reflection in the round mirror atop it—my cropped hair flat and fading back from black to brown, my skin too pink from the sun.
And then, beside me in that r
eflection, I saw the two bodies lying on the bed, and screamed.
CHAPTER
3
DEAD. Inhuman. Brown shells of skin and lips drawn back into leathery snarls. Holes where there should have been eyes. Painted skeletons dressed up in moth-eaten clothes.
My heel caught in a floor rug and I stumbled backward into the wall. It knocked the wind out of me, or maybe I didn’t have any to begin with, because when I tried to swallow another breath I couldn’t.
The bodies were moving now, coming alive on their floral comforter. A whispering, scuttling sound, and the clothing shifted. I was paralyzed, my muscles frozen. I’d landed near the foot of the bed, and watched in horror as a faded pink house slipper twisted slightly on its boney ankle and then slid off an old weathered foot as if pulled by some invisible hand.
From the slipper erupted a legion of roaches, each the length of my thumb, flowing like lava from a volcano.
I scrambled backward into the hallway, then leaped to my feet. Chase appeared, saying my name, but I couldn’t hold on to it. I stared past him through the door, to Sean, who’d arrived moments after Chase, now grimacing over the bodies. They weren’t moving. It was the roaches that were moving. Hundreds of them. They were everywhere.
I jolted back, swiping my hands down my arms, shaking out my hair. My skin itched like they were on me, under my clothes and on my neck and in my shoes. Get them off get them off get them off.
Chase grabbed my face between his hands, and finally my gaze locked on his. There was a steadiness there that grounded me and slowed my pulse.
“Why are they here?” I asked, suddenly angry at them—the dead people. They shouldn’t have scared me. I’d seen worse. Much worse.
“Let’s go get some air,” he said.
I peeled his fingers away.
“Why didn’t they clear out like everyone else?” There wasn’t any sign of violence; it was like they’d laid down to sleep and not woken up, and for some reason this bothered me even more.
“I don’t know.”
“They should have evacuated.” The government had cleared this area years ago.