Donor 23 (17 page)

Joan kept eating.

“And you ain’t taking the boots, neither.”

Joan nodded, “I’m sorry,” she mumbled with a full mouth. “This is really, really good—the best.”

Joan realized why the room bothered her. It was the walls. There was no photo of the Governor. She’d never been in a room without one.

Hazel eyed Joan’s foot.

“You know,” Hazel said, as she walked over to Grizzly and took the item from his mouth, “how about this one?” she held up an old, chewed up boot—a left shoe. “This is one of my old boots. Garth wouldn’t miss it. Garth’s my husband, you see, and he has a rule about giving things to you runaways. A meal and some food for the road, he says, but no more. But he wouldn’t miss this. Grizzly’s always burying his chew stuff.”

Joan stopped in mid-bite, not knowing what to say, “Thank you.”

A shoe—she had a shoe and real food. Her eyes teared up.

Hazel softened even more and sat next to her. While Joan ate, Hazel told her about her life. She and Garth had been together since she was a teenager. He distilled and sold whiskey. There were many people like them here in the mountains, outside the reaches of the Alliance. This area of the continent was full of settlers. There existed a thriving exchange of goods between the Alliance and the settlers.

Farther west dwelled what Hazel called Nomads. After the Impact, Nomads had returned to the land, living like their ancestors and roaming the plains. They controlled most of the central and desert part of the continent, Hazel explained. The settlers and Alliance both traded with the Nomads.

Small towns dotted the entire continent, she told Joan, mostly centered on the navigable highways, coasts, and big rivers. Along the coasts, both in the Far West and in the South, the large cities were rebuilding quite successfully.

“I know. You’re surprised, right? We heard your Alliance tells you all that we’re a horde of wild people, wanting to overrun you and kill your children and so on. We’re all just trying to get along, to survive.”

“Do you know anyone called Lucas?” Joan asked between bites.

Hazel shook her head. The sound of a car interrupted them.

Looking out the window Hazel said, “Alliance army.”

Joan started, but Hazel calmed her, “Don’t worry, they don’t care about runaways. They’re probably here for Garth’s whiskey. What’s that? Ain’t never seen a uniform like that. All black.”

Joan rushed to the window. Nox. It was Nox.

16

T
hrough the dirty window, Joan observed Nox climb out of a basic army transport vehicle, called a durable. Four soldiers accompanied him.

“I have to go,” she looked frantically around for a weapon, a way out, a hiding place—she didn’t know what. The cabin had one door, the front door. She ran to a window, but it was in the driveway’s line of vision.

“Hold on, girl,” Hazel advised, gazing out the window. “Here comes Garth, too.”

The soldiers and Nox paused in the dirt driveway, waiting for Garth to park and get out of his truck.

“Come on,” Hazel hurried over to the kitchen. “Here, hide under the sink.” She pulled out a trash bucket to make room for Joan. Joan squeezed inside. As Hazel closed the cupboard door, Joan pushed at it, “My backpack.”

The sound of heavy footsteps boomed on the porch. Hazel ran and grabbed the backpack. The steps came closer. She hurried back to the cupboard, tossed the pack to Joan, and closed the cupboard door, just as the front door opened.

Inside walked Garth, Nox, and one soldier; the others remained out on the driveway. Garth carried a bottle full of a clear liquid.

The soldier nodded to Hazel, “Morning, Hazel.”

“Lieutenant,” she greeted back. “So who’s your friend?”

Looking at Nox, the Lieutenant said, “Oh, this’s Captain Nox. He’s with our Tax Enforcement Office—”

“New batch of shine,” Garth interrupted, placing the bottle on the table. “Gonna test it. Haze get me a saucer.”

Hazel went to the cupboard and withdrew a teacup and saucer, handing both to Garth. He set the cup aside, and carefully poured a spoonful on the saucer. Then he lit it with a match. The flame burned blue. Garth smiled.

The Lieutenant nudged Nox, “‘Lead burns red and makes you dead.’ Garth taught me that. See, a blue flame. It’s OK to drink.”

Nox looked confused.

“It’s whiskey,” the Lieutenant explained.

“But it’s clear. Whiskey should be golden,” Nox said.

Garth and the Lieutenant exchanged knowing glances. Garth got up and picked a small piece of burnt wood from the fireplace and dropped it into the bottle.

“There, soon it’ll be a good color and a good oak taste,” Garth smiled.

Nox was uncomfortable here and promptly realized why: no photo of the Governor. The illegal liquor also disturbed him. Laws apparently meant nothing here, and what’s more, the Lieutenant didn’t seem to mind.

He glared at the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant cleared his throat thinking to himself that Nox was a real killjoy, and he’d
only been around him for a of couple days. He wondered if a few months out here in the wilderness would make him relax.

“The Captain is looking for someone, a runaway—”

“Criminal,” Nox interrupted sternly. He described Joan to them.

“Well, we ain’t seen nobody,” Garth snarled. Hazel stood in silence.

Nox examined the room, taking in every detail. Walking up to the table, he motioned to the boot, bent, and picked it up.

“One boot. Left,” he said.

“Yeah, so?” Garth raised his bushy eyebrows.

“This criminal is missing a left shoe.”

“Yeah, so. This is my dog’s toy,” Garth grabbed the boot from Nox and tossed it to Grizzly.

Nox marched around the cabin. Squeezed in her hiding place, Joan huddled, petrified. Her mind flashed to visions of Frank hiding inside her apartment wall. Nox stopped right next to the cabinet where she hid.

“What’s this?”

Joan held her breath.

“Trash bucket,” Hazel answered at once. “I’s just gonna empty it when you came in.”

“But it’s not full,” Nox said, always observant, greedily noticing everything.

“What
is
this?” Garth questioned, annoyed, as he sensed the accusatory tone in Nox’s voice. “Just what are you getting at?”

“It’s nothing,” the Lieutenant tried to calm Garth down and send a warning to Nox. “He’s used to asking questions and being suspicious in his line of work. Listen Garth, we’re heading into the hills. Plan to ask around and see if anyone’s seen her. We’re looking for a tracker to hire, to help us find her, if we pick up her trail. Who do you think could do it?”

“Maybe Polk, over at Sutter Mountain. He’s one of the best. I don’t know, though. People don’t like turning in runaways, you know.”

“Criminal,” Nox corrected, again.

The Lieutenant smiled, “Well, we have a reward for this one. Thirty dollars.”

Joan swallowed.

“Alliance paper money?” Garth questioned, raising his eyebrows.

“No. Silver coins.”

Nox shook his head. He had been against offering a reward. Following the law was a reward unto itself.

The Lieutenant put on his hat. “Well, it was good seeing you, Garth. Hazel. Keep an eye out. Come on, Captain, let’s go.”

Garth poured himself some whiskey, “What’d this girl do, anyway?”

“Attempted murder of an officer. She hit him in the head with a rock.” Nox answered, as he walked out the door.

From her hiding place, Joan jerked her head and gasped, oblivious to the fact she might make a noise.
Attempted murder?
Duncan was alive.

Relief swept over Joan. Nox was gone. She had not killed Duncan. “Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, not knowing whom she thanked.

She listened, as the men walked out, to their footfalls down the porch and the durable’s engine roar to life.

At the table, shaking his head, Garth said about Nox, “He’s a squirrelly guy.”

Hazel walked over and whispered in Garth’s ear.

Joan strained to catch what they said.

“Huh?” Garth uttered. “What’re you saying Haze?”

Silence. Footsteps reverberated across the room. The floor creaked and groaned—heavy footsteps. He must be a large
man. He moved closer to her and stopped right in front of the cupboard. She held her breath. The cupboard door swung open. He squatted and stared at her, as if she were a caged animal.

He was a big man, not fat, but heavy and solid. A few days of bristly, coarse stubble—reddish-brown tinged with a dingy gray—set off his bald head. He had deep eye sockets, which hid his eyes in the shadows as he crouched, appearing to Joan as if he had gaping holes of nothingness beneath his brow. She made no human connection in them, and she felt a sudden, shattering chill climb up her spine, like a spider.

“Come on out o’ there, girl,” he instructed.

Joan crawled out and stood before him, clutching her backpack to her chest.

He regarded her and walked in a cringing manner over to the table. “Well, sit down.”

Joan did not want to sit. She wanted to get out as fast as possible.

She tentatively walked over toward him, “Uh…I’m going to just go.”

She made her way hastily to the door, not looking behind her and hoping if she didn’t see him, he wouldn’t stop her. It was working. She was at the front door, opening it…and then his arm reached over her shoulder and slammed it shut.

“Nah.”

She looked at Hazel for help. Hazel would not meet her gaze.

“Please, I just want to leave. I won’t say a thing about being here. I don’t want anything.”

“Well, I want something,” he chuckled. “I want that reward.”

He took his arm off the door and moved his body away from it—away from Joan. Joan yanked open the door. He grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her away, throwing her to the center of the room. She maintained her balance. Using her
kickboxing skills, she struck him with two quick punches: a left jab to his abdomen and a right hook to his jaw. He snarled, more in surprise at her strikes than pain.

The dog jumped up, barking and growling. Garth came at her. She barely had enough room to maneuver, but she executed a roundhouse kick, aiming for his head. He was too tall. Her foot landed on his shoulder, and he grabbed it and yanked, sending her flying to the floor.
This is no good. He is just too big and too strong,
she thought. This wasn’t like the kick-boxing exercises at the Center, with plenty of room, protective padding, and, most importantly, an opponent her own size.

She jumped up and prepared for another kick, but the dog ran in and out, snapping. She stepped back. She turned away from Garth for a second, but it was long enough. His blow came, and it was spectacular, hitting her squarely in her kidney. The pain was exquisite, like a tidal wave of agony, spreading from her lower back throughout her body. Incapacitated, she fell to the floor. He kicked her twice, but seeing her situation, he stopped and hovered over her.

“Had enough?”

She couldn’t speak, not even to beg.

“Shut up!” he yelled at Grizzly, who backed down and quieted. To Hazel, “Gimme the bowie.”

Hazel went over and retrieved a bowie knife hanging in a sheath on the wall and handed it to Garth. Joan managed to look. She had never seen such a large knife. She began crawling away as best she could, back up against the wall.

“You give me any more trouble, and I’ll use this.” He waved the knife in the air. “They didn’t say you had to be alive for the reward.”

In the ghetto, Joan had seen donors beaten, broken, and defeated. She knew how to act. She put up both hands, palms open, in a universal sign of giving up. Glaring at her, Garth sheathed the massive knife.

“Hazel, you go on up to the fort and leave a message for the Lieutenant that we got her.”

“I can probably catch them,” she replied. “They were heading to Polk’s place. They shouldn’t be far—”

“No. Go to the fort. They won’t have the silver with them here. I ain’t giving her up without it—and I don’t trust that Nox fella. We can just keep her here till they get back to the fort and bring the silver.”

Hazel persisted, “But that’ll take me all day to drive there. Won’t get back till late.”

“Go,” he commanded, as he lobbed her the car keys. “Throw me that pack of hers.” Hazel tossed him Joan’s backpack, as she walked toward the door. “And take the dog.”

With Joan still in pain and huddled on the floor, Garth rummaged through her backpack. His hands appeared dirty and rough, with jagged, long, yellow fingernails. He pulled out the rope.

“You brought your own rope for us to tie you up with?” he snickered and set it on the table.

More rummaging. He pulled out the flashlight, flicked it on and off a couple of times, and set it on the table. He pulled out the photo of Joan’s parents, held the precious memento in his grimy hands, barely glanced at it, and tossed it on the ground near the fireplace. Joan watched the photo float to the floor. Finished, he tossed the pack over near the door. He sat, poured himself a glass of liquor, and stared at Joan.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

More whiskey, more staring. Leering.

After a while, he stood up and walked to her.

“Up,” he smiled sickly. “To the bed.”

Joan pretended to be in more distress than she was, struggling mightily to stand and grasping her hands around her waist, as if in anguish. He grabbed her arm and stepped back from her—his mistake. This was her chance. She had enough
space. He wasn’t expecting her to fight. She drove her knee into his groin, delivering a piercing strike. He doubled over, and she grabbed a ceramic water pitcher from a small end table and smashed it into his head. It broke to pieces. He fell and writhed on the ground, holding his bleeding head.

Joan ran to the door, picked up the backpack and the boot, and ran out and down the steps. She stopped dead in her tracks. The photo. She hesitated. Her parents. She couldn’t leave without it.

She headed back into the house. Stopping inside the door, she stared at him. He lay on the floor, not moving and with his back to her. She stood and watched him for a second. His chest rose ever so slightly—he was breathing. He was alive.
Unconscious?
She ran to the photo near the fireplace, picked it up, and slipped it into her sweatpants pocket.