After the First Death (26 page)

The rain
had stopped but the pavement was still wet. Despite the rain, the day had remained warm. Now that evening was here, the heat and humidity were high. Miro’s clothes were soaked. The clothing stuck to his flesh. The rain had begun in mid-afternoon, had shortly reached a crescendo, the clouds like broken dams, and then abated. Miro had kept moving through the downpour, knowing he could not indulge in the luxury of rest or recuperation. He kept low to the ground, darting and scurrying from bush to shrub to tree. He had climbed trees twice to elude his pursuers. Once, he had removed his undershirt, torn it into strips that he used to bandage his injured leg. He became immune to the pain. Or perhaps his entire body was so pain-wracked that he could not
tell where he began and the pain left off. He was neither hungry nor thirsty. He felt neither weak nor strong. He simply existed.

He was sitting in bushes by the side of the highway. Darkness had fallen. The lights of passing cars stabbed at the darkness. He wondered whether he should chance hitching a ride. He sensed danger in it. Miro knew that his description had probably been circulated throughout the area, throughout the state and nation. He also knew that he looked a sight, soaked and bloody.

He glanced over his shoulder. The woods were dark and silent. A stench rose to his nostrils. His own stench. He had swum through a river thick with scum to escape the searchers. The river ran beside several old factories and by a dump. He thought of his pursuers, the close calls he’d had. It had been like a game but he had taken no pleasure in it. He had used the knowledge he had gained in the camps and the training school, relying on instinct as well.

Once, he’d wondered: Why am I running? Why do I wish to escape? He should have died with Artkin on the bridge. That would have been a statement for others to see. Then he remembered all the lessons Artkin had taught him, day by day, year by year. He realized Artkin had taught him for a purpose. It would have been glorious to die with Artkin on the bridge. But it was more important to carry on the work. So Miro had persisted in his escape, willing himself to continue past pain and exhaustion.

Traffic was light now. Cars passed only occasionally. A truck lumbered into view and vanished in the night. The highway was dark, without streetlights. Miro sensed that the darkness was a friend, that he should take advantage of the night to get away from here. He needed to get to Boston; once there, he could hide in a
dozen places and then make contacts. The best way to go would be in one of the passing cars or trucks. The solution was simple: hitch a ride, then kill the driver, dump the body somewhere, and continue on his way. The gun was still in his belt, fully loaded except for the bullet he had spent on the girl.

He thought of the girl. And Artkin. And his last sight of them. Artkin dying as he fell. The girl curled up in the bushes, her face hidden. Both his victims. He knew he had killed Artkin by reaching for the girl instead of warning him of the approaching soldiers. He was responsible for Artkin’s death. Thus, Artkin had been his first death, not the girl. And the girl. She had been playing games with him, the way she had played games with him on the bus. It was impossible that Artkin was his father. For one moment, the girl had made him believe it. The moment had pierced him with—what? Something. Like the something he had known when she touched his arm on the bus. He remembered how her flesh glowed in the dimness of the bus. He had been filled with that something he could not put a name to. The girl had asked him once: Don’t you feel anything? Perhaps he had been filled with feeling at that moment. He did not know. He did not care. He would not let himself be filled with anything again. He would keep himself empty, like before.

A car stopped nearby. A station wagon. The driver got out of the car. A man, short and fat. The man looked around and began to walk toward the woods at the edge of the roadway, fumbling with his trousers, apparently seeking a place to urinate. Miro recognized his good fortune. He decided he would not waste a bullet but would use his hands.

He moved out of the bushes into the world that was waiting for him.

Robert Cormier (1925–2000) changed the face of young adult literature over the course of his illustrious career. His many novels include
The Chocolate War
,
Beyond the Chocolate War
,
I Am the Cheese
,
Fade
,
Tenderness
,
After the First Death
,
Heroes
,
Frenchtown Summer
, and
The Rag and Bone Shop
. In 1991, he received the Margaret A. Edwards Award, honoring his lifetime contribution to writing for teens.