Infraction (2 page)

“
The guy and the girl?”

“
I said yeah.”

“
Then where are they?”

I have to bite my cheek to keep from gasping.
They're looking for us. Jack is paralyzed next to me. These men
have been tracking us—who knows for how long.

“
I don't know. Look, here are their
packs.”

I almost cry, thinking of our supplies we so
carefully scavenged and then rationed. The beam of a flashlight
flickers all through the blackberry canes, sending wild shadows
bending across us. Through the thicket, two men stand close
together. One holds Jack's pack, and the other holds the flashlight
in his mouth so he can see while he rifles through my pack.

“
Some cans of food. Some rope—that's
handy. A piece of paper in plastic.”

“
What's it say?”

My heart sinks. The letter from Jessa. I've kept it
all these months. I should have burned it or torn it in a thousand
pieces after Mary found it and used it against me, but I haven't
been able to. I close my eyes and feel the heat behind them as I
try to keep the tears at bay. This is not how Jack should find out.
He deserves to hear it from me.

“
Does it matter? Check out the other
pack.”

I breathe deeply, thankful for this one mercy. Then
I remember that Jack has mostly medical supplies in his pack, and
if these are nomads looking to raid our supplies, they'll be
looking for a lot more than supplies if they discover Jack's a
doctor.

The man with the flashlight unzips Jack's pack, and
Jack's breath catches in his throat. I long to reach for him, to
comfort him somehow, but we both have to lie through this together
but alone. I'm alone as I see Jessa's letter flutter back into my
pack from one man's dirt-covered fingers, and Jack is alone as he
watches to see if he'll be the cause of more death just because
he's a doctor.

“
Look at this. Bandages, rubbing
alcohol, pain killers.” The man holds up a jar half-filled with
Nell's salve. “What's this?”

The other man leans close and peers at it, his lip
curling. “Don't know. Looks nasty. Think they made the last med
drop?”

“
Could be. Could be that they know
how to use all this stuff too.”

“
You think one's a
doctor?”

“
Could be.”

“
They wouldn't go far from their
supplies.”

“
That's what I'm
thinking.”

“
See, I haven't lost them. We'll
just stick close and see if we can find them in the
morning.”

The flashlight flicks off, and the darkness falls on
us so fast it's almost a shock. The sound of their boots slugging
through the damp forest floor fades into the distance, and I
finally risk bringing a hand to my mouth.

Nomads, then, and they'll be watching for us
tomorrow.

The gray light of morning splays across my face, and
I can't believe I let myself fall asleep. After the men had gone,
the cricket song resumed and all the other noises of the forest
woke up from some drugged sleep. It lulled me to unconsciousness.
As soon as my brain is awake enough to think clearly, I freeze and
can't move. I feel pressure on my hand, and I look down and see
that Jack and I have slept all night with our hands clenched
together.

When
will
we stop walking on
ice?

My hand aches as I gently ease it from his. I flex my
fingers, trying to will some feeling back into them. Jack's face
twitches, and his eyes flutter open. I put a finger to my lips to
remind him of our danger, but I don't have to. The fear etched deep
in his eyes tells me he will never forget.

I stretch in the sleeping bag, urging my muscles to
relax, but it's no use. I'm wound tightly around the threat the
nomads pose to us, the nomads that lurk somewhere out there beyond
the meager cover of our thicket.

I sit up slowly as Jack sits up in the opposite
direction, and we study the woods through the gaps in the
blackberry canes. Nothing. But neither of us is so trusting that we
believe the nomads grew tired and simply moved on. We'll be
watching for them every step we take. It's going to be a long few
days.

Our packs are gone and our breakfast with them. Jack
leans in close, his shaggy brown hair sweeping softly against my
face. He used to trim his hair regularly in the settlement, but we
had one pair of scissors in his pack, and we reserved them for
medical use only. Jack didn't want to dull them on something like a
haircut.

“We need to get moving. See if we can find food.”

He's trying to distract me, talking about our
immediate needs. I appreciate it though it doesn't help. I nod, try
to smile, and roll up my bag. I take off my belt and use it to
strap the bag to my waist.

Last night's cloud cover has blown away and sunlight
filters through the trees, dappling the damp ground. We're lucky in
one way at least
—
the soggy undergrowth is
almost silent compared to dry, crackling leaves.

I swivel my head side-to-side as we walk west, and
Jack checks our backs.

It's not until the sun is high in the sky and our
stomachs growl so loudly I think they might claw their way out that
we hear any human sounds. Several male voices, muffled by distance
and foliage. Jack and I freeze at once, both of us with the stiff,
ready-for-flight posture of hunted animals. I move just enough to
look at Jack. He nods, confirming my hopes.

The nomads are too far away to hear us or see us.

I cut southwest, away from the voices, hoping my
heart will stop thrumming in my chest long enough that I can catch
a decent breath and the knot in my stomach will go away. I step
quietly, watching the ground more than my direction, looking for
the quietest spots to plant my feet. I know the men are too far
away. If they had heard us, they would have been all over us by
now, but I'm still terrified.

I don't know if I'm more terrified for myself or for
Jack. They would kill Jack if he didn't agree to give them medical
treatment. Me, they might rough up a bit. I can live with
bruises—I've had my share of physical wounds during my few months
on the Burn, and I know I can take the pain. I couldn't live with
myself knowing they hurt Jack.

I reach a hand behind me and Jack takes it. I squeeze
his hand once and then drop it as we hurry faster through the
trees. I can't hear the voices anymore, and if I can't hear them,
they most likely won't hear us.

Then I'm running, flying through the forest, my
pounding heart keeping rhythm for my legs. Jack's footsteps follow
mine, and we lose all caution as we crash through the forest, away
from the men that stole our packs and wanted to take us as well. My
feet churn up the damp leaves, and the smell of decay floods my
nose. The crisp air chills my cheeks and my nose starts to run. I
swipe at it with my sleeve. Then a loud thud sounds behind me.

“Terra!” Jack hisses.

I whip back. Jack's legs are tangled in some brambles
my running uncovered. I hurry back and kneel beside him. I pull the
knife Gaea gave me from its sheath at my hip. This knife and
freedom are the only good things she's given me. I could also say
she gave me the gift of life, and while that's true, I can't call
her mother. Suddenly my thoughts jump to sweet Nell with her
fingers raking through the soil of the oca fields, pulling weeds,
and making me smile. I draw a deep breath to calm the dull ache in
my chest. She was more of a mother to me for the few weeks I was
with her.

At least this knife is sharp.

I slice through the brambles, freeing Jack's legs. He
shucks the dried plants off and jumps to his feet, but I don't have
the energy to run anymore. He sees my hesitation.

“What's wrong?”

I just shake my head and brace my hands to my knees.
Remembering my biological mother and then Nell brought me up short
and now all I can think about is my exhaustion. I wouldn't even
have tempted my mind to go there—wouldn't even have drawn the
knife, if that's what it took—if I had known.

Jack takes one step in my direction, but I hold up a
hand to him and then dry heave. He misunderstands, thankfully. He
thinks my body has quit on me after running like a madman on no
breakfast, but I can't bring myself to tell him about my mother. I
need to. Oh, I need to. I need to tell him about Gaea, about the
colony, about those pieces that make up who I am. Those are the
things I need to tell him. But not yet. I'm so unsure if it'll just
drive him away.

When my stomach stops cramping and my breath calms, I
look ahead and see daylight bursting through the trees. There's a
clearing or some kind of break in the trees. I point and Jack
follows my finger.

“It stretches east and west,” he says, “for quite a
ways.”

I tentatively step forward, unsure what this new
development might mean. Could it be a barren town out there? If so,
there may be supplies that haven't been scavenged yet or at least a
bed in a derelict building that I could rest on for just a few
hours. Towns are dangerous, yes, because they're easy to monitor
from the air. But right now, I really don't care. I've been running
for too long, and my body is ready to give out on me.

I walk the last distance through the trees, and the
forest opens up to reveal not a town, but a smooth ribbon of
pavement stretching east and west in an unbroken line.

A road.

Something about it, about its uniformity, triggers a
warning, but my brain is too sluggish and stupid right now to
puzzle through it and pinpoint why it sets me on edge.

The late morning light glistens off the road, making
me squint. I peer left and then right. I turn back to Jack and
shrug my shoulders. He puts a hand to the back of his neck.

“I don't know, Terra. Following the road
would
be easier, but for some reason I don't like
it.”

I nod, but the invitation of smooth road and no
brambles clutching at our feet wins me over. I need food and water
soon, and surely this road will lead somewhere—a town, a lake,
anything. We've left the nomads behind. I'm sure of it. Even if we
haven't, it will be easier to see them coming here in the open.

Jack frowns but steps beside me.

We walk long past noon, past what looks to be about
three o'clock. My lips and tongue are dry, my stomach has long
stopped rumbling, and my legs are ready to give out, when we see a
small building. It's a small square of concrete set with windows
shaded by a sagging canopy. Dingy, metal scanners stand beneath the
canopy. At least they look like scanners, but they have hoses
coming out the sides. Ancient scanners, maybe? I can't ask Jack
what they are. Something tells me that if I were from the Burn, I
would know. I'm reminded all over again of what I need to tell him,
but he saves me by doing the last thing I expect—laughing.

“A gas station.”

Jack lengthens his strides. He avoids the canopy; it
looks like it could collapse at any moment. He yanks on one of the
glass doors, but it's locked. He looks around, grabs a rock with
his slender fingers, and smashes it through the glass. The violence
startles me right out of my hunger fog. He has such beautiful
hands; they soothed my wounded feet so gently. That's how I usually
think of Jack—as a healer. To see him use his hands this way shocks
me. I can't help but let out a strangled giggle. How else do I
react to something so incongruous? Jack raises an eyebrow, but I
think he's used to the way my laughter comes through at the
strangest moments.

The shattered glass crunches under his feet as he
reaches through the glass, unlocks the door, and opens it for
me.

I marvel that the store hasn't been touched. Granted,
there's nothing around—just the forest and this single road. Maybe
when all the evacuees of local towns and unsanctioned cities were
shipped off to Seattle, there was no time and no one to come here
before us. But it's been decades. Could any of this food still be
good?

A thick layer of dust coats every shelf. I draw a
finger over the counter and leave a long, snaking stripe. A massive
refrigerator that takes up the entire side wall holds some kind of
bottle obscured by the foggy glass. Jack opens it, and rows of
water bottles stand before us. The water might be stale, but the
taste of stale water is the last thing to bother me now.

I swipe two bottles and open them both up so quickly
I slosh some on my shoes. The water eddies around me in dusty
swirls. I hand one to Jack, and our fingers brush as he grabs it.
He lingers there just a moment too long, then pulls the bottle away
and drinks deeply.

“It tastes horrible, but at least it's water.”

I nod and sip mine. I'm too hungry and too thirsty.
If I go too fast, I'll retch all over the floor. Jack may be in
love with me, but it's still gross to watch someone puke. So I
nurse my bottled water as I wander around the store. Too many of
the cans are dented or bulging, and the food in plastic wrappers
feels rock hard. I wonder if we'll find anything worth eating.

I notice a door at the back of the store with a small
pane of glass. I push it open and can't contain a giggle. Jack
takes a minute to decide if it's sincere.

“What is it?” Jack calls, stooped over some kind of
candy, ripping open the packages and sniffing the contents.

I just laugh again and let the door swing closed
behind me as I step inside. The people here obviously knew some
kind of disaster was coming. There are metal shelves with toilet
paper and soap for restocking the restrooms. But next to that are
metal cans that read “hard red wheat” and “sugar” and “rice.” Back
in the colony during my failed attempt at culinary arts, I learned
that the colonists kept several staples on hand in case of a
disaster in the agriculture pods. Wheat, rice, and beans would keep
for years without losing any nutritional value. I tried to learn
recipes incorporating each of these, but my bread loaves were more
like bricks and my beans could have been the mortar.