Pandemonium (17 page)

Sarah, who has been running ahead, loops back around to me. “What do you think happened to Tack and Hunter?” she says. “Do you think they’ll be okay? Do you think they’ll find us?”

“Shhh.” I hush her sharply. Raven is walking ahead of us, and I glance up to see whether she has heard. “Don’t worry about that. Tack and Hunter can take care of themselves.”

“But what about Squirrel and Grandma? Do you think they got out okay?”

I think about that giant convulsive shudder—stone and dirt blasting inward—all the shouting and the smoke. There was so much noise, so much flame. I try to reach for a memory of Squirrel and Grandma, some vision of them running into the woods, but all I have are silhouettes, screaming and shouted orders, people turning to smoke.

“You ask too many questions,” I tell her. “You should be saving your strength.”

She has been trotting like a dog. Now she slows down to a walk. “Are we going to die?” she asks solemnly.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve relocated before.”

“But the people on the inside of the fence…” She bites her lip. “They want to kill us, don’t they?”

I feel something tighten inside of me, a spasm of deep hatred. I reach out and put a hand on her head. “They haven’t killed us yet,” I say, and I imagine that one day I will fly a plane over Portland, over Rochester, over every fenced-in city in the whole country, and I will bomb and bomb and bomb, and watch all their buildings smoldering to dust, and all those people melting and bleeding into flame, and I will see how they like it.

If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit.

This is the way the world is made now.

We reach the first encampment just before midnight on the third day, after a last-minute confusion about heading east or west at the large overturned tree lying gutted, roots exposed to the sky, which Roach had marked with a red bandanna. We waste an hour going the wrong way and have to double back, but as soon as we spot the small pyramid of stones Roach and Buck piled together to mark the place where the food is buried, there is general celebration. We run, shouting, the last fifty feet to the small clearing, full of renewed energy.

The plan was to stay here for a day, two tops, but Raven thinks we should camp out longer, and try to trap what we can. It is getting colder and will be increasingly difficult to find small game, and we do not have enough food to make it all the way south.

Now it is safe to set up our tents. For a while it is possible to forget we’re on the run, forget we’ve lost members of our group, forget about all the supplies we left back at the homestead. We light a fire; we sit in its glow, warm our hands, and tell one another stories to distract ourselves from the cold and the hunger, from the air, which smells like coming snow.

T
ell me a story.”

“What?” Julian’s voice startles me. He’s been sitting in silence for hours. I’ve been pacing again, thinking about Raven and Tack. Did they escape the demonstration? Will they think I’ve been hurt, or killed? Will they come looking for me?

“I said, tell me a story.” He’s sitting on his cot, legs crossed. I’ve noticed he can sit like that for hours, eyes half-closed, like he’s meditating. His calm has started to irritate me. “It’ll make the time go faster,” he adds.

Another day, more dragging hours. The light is on again, and breakfast (more bread, more jerky, more water) came again this morning. This time I pressed myself close to the floor and caught a glimpse of dark trousers and heavy boots. A barking male voice directed me to pass the old tray through the flap door, which I did.

“I don’t know any stories,” I say. Julian is comfortable looking at me now—too comfortable, actually. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk, like a light touch on my shoulder.

“Tell me about your life, then,” Julian says. “It doesn’t have to be a good story.”

I sigh, running through the life Raven helped me construct for Lena Morgan Jones. “I was born in Queens. I attended Unity through fifth grade, then transferred to Our Lady of the Doctrine. Last year I came to Brooklyn and enrolled at Quincy Edwards for my final year.” Julian is still watching me, as though he expects more. I make a quick, impatient gesture with my hand and add, “I was cured in November. I’ll take my evaluation later on this semester, though, with everyone else. I don’t have a match yet.” I run out of things to say. Lena Morgan Jones, like all cureds, is pretty boring.

“Those are facts,” Julian says. “That’s not a story.”

“Fine.” I go and sit on my cot, bringing my legs underneath me, and turn to him. “If you’re such an expert, why don’t you tell me a story?”

I’m expecting him to be flustered, but he just tilts his head back, thinking, blowing air out of his cheeks. The cut on his lip looks even worse today, bruised and swollen. Shades of yellow and green have begun to spread across his jawline. He hasn’t complained, though, either about that or the ragged cut on his cheek.

He says finally, “One time, when I was really little, I saw two people kissing in public.”

“You mean, like, at a marriage ceremony? To seal it?”

He shakes his head. “No. On the street. They were protesters, you know? It was right in front of the DFA. I don’t know if they weren’t cured or the procedure didn’t take or what. I was only, like, six. They were—” At the last second Julian falters.

“What?”

“They were using their tongues.” He looks at me for just a second, then clicks his eyes away. Tongue-kissing is even worse than illegal nowadays. It’s considered dirty, disgusting, a symptom of disease taken root.

“What did you do?” I lean forward in spite of myself. I’m amazed, both by the story and by the fact that Julian is sharing it with me.

Julian cracks a smile. “Want to hear something funny? At first I thought he was eating her.”

I can’t help it: I let out a short bark of laughter. And once I start laughing I can’t stop. All the tension from the past fortyeight hours breaks in my chest, and I laugh so hard I start to tear up. The whole world has been turned inside out and upside down. We are living in a funhouse.

Julian starts to laugh too, then winces, touching his bruised lip. “Ow,” he says, and this makes me laugh even harder, which makes him laugh, which makes him say “Ow” again. Pretty soon we’re both cracking up. Julian has a surprisingly nice laugh, low and musical.

“Okay, your turn,” he finally gasps, as the laughter runs out.

I’m still struggling for breath. “Wait—wait. What happened after that?”

Julian looks at me, still smiling. He has a dimple in his right cheek; a line has appeared between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“What happened to the couple? The ones who were kissing?”

The line between his eyebrows deepens, and he shakes his head confusedly. “The police came,” he says, like it should be obvious. “They were taken into quarantine at Rikers. For all I know, they’re still there.”

And just like that, the remaining laughter is driven out of me, like a sharp blow to the chest. I remember that Julian is one of Them; the zombies, the enemies. The people who took Alex from me.

Suddenly I feel sick. I have just been laughing with him. We’ve shared something. He’s looking at me like we’re friends, like we’re the same.

I could throw up.

“So,” he says. “Now you go.”

“I don’t have any stories,” I say. My voice comes out harshly, a bark.

“Everyone has—,” Julian starts to say.

I cut him off. “Not me,” I say, and climb off the cot again. My body is full of itching; I try to walk it out.

We go the rest of the day without exchanging a word. A few times, Julian seems about to speak, and so eventually I go to the cot and stretch out, closing my eyes and pretending to sleep. But I do not sleep.

The same words are whirling again and again in my mind:
There must be a way out. There must be a way out.

Real sleep does not come until much later, after the electric light once again clicks off. Real sleep is like sinking slowly, like drowning in a mist. All too soon I am awake again. I sit up, heart pounding.

Julian is shouting in his sleep on the cot next to me, muttering gibberish words. The only one I can make out is
no
.

I wait for a bit, to see whether he will wake himself up. He kicks out, thrashing. The metal bed frame rattles.

“Hey,” I say. His urgent mutterings continue, and I sit up and say a little louder, “Hey, Julian.”

Still no response. I reach over, fumbling for his arm in the dark. His chest is damp with sweat. I find his shoulder and shake him gently.

“Wake up, Julian.”

Finally he wakes, gasping, and jerks away from my touch. He sits up. I can hear the rustle of the mattress as his weight shifts, and I can just make out his shape, a heavy blackness, the curve of his spine. For a moment we sit in silence. He is breathing hard. A rasping sound comes from his throat. I lie down again and listen to his breathing in the dark, waiting for it to slow.

“More nightmares?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says after a beat.

I hesitate. Part of me is inclined to roll over and go to sleep. But I’m awake now too, and the darkness is oppressive.

“Want to talk about it?” I say.

There’s a long minute of silence. Then Julian begins speaking in a rush.

“I was in a lab complex,” he says. “And outside there was this big fence. But there were all these… I can’t really explain it, but it wasn’t a real fence. It was made of bodies. Corpses. The air was black with flies.”

“Go on,” I say in a whisper, when Julian pauses again.

He swallows hard. “When it was time for my procedure, they strapped me down to a table and asked me to open my mouth. Two scientists wrenched open my jaw, and my dad—he was there too—picked up this huge vat of concrete, and I knew that he was going to pour it down my throat. And I was screaming and trying to fight him off, and he kept saying it would feel fine, it would all be better, and then the concrete started filling my mouth and I couldn’t breathe…”

Julian trails off. There’s a squeezing in my chest. For one wild second I feel like hugging him—but that would be horrible, and wrong on about a thousand levels. Julian must feel better too, after relating the dream to me, because he lies down again.

“I have nightmares too,” I say, and then quickly correct myself. “Used to, I mean.”

Even in the dark, I can feel Julian staring at me.

“Want to talk about it?” He echoes my words back to me.

I think of the nightmares I used to have about my mother: dreams in which I would watch, helpless, as she walked off a cliff. I have never told anyone about them. Not even Alex. The dreams stopped after I found out she’d been alive, in the Crypts, for all the years I thought she was dead. But now my nightmares have taken new shape. Now they are full of burning, and Alex, and thorns that become chains and drag me into the earth.

“I used to have nightmares about my mom,” I say. I choke a little on the word
mom
, and hope he doesn’t notice. “She died when I was six.” This may as well be true. I will never see her again.

There is rustling from Julian’s cot, and when he speaks I can tell he has turned toward me. “Tell me about her,” he says softly.

I stare up into the darkness, which seems to be full of swirling patterns. “She liked to experiment in the kitchen,” I say slowly. I can’t tell him too much. I can’t say anything that will make him suspicious. This is no longer the story of Lena Morgan Jones. But speaking into the darkness feels like a relief, so I let myself go on: “I used to sit on the counter and watch her messing around. Most of what she made went in the trash. But it was always funny, and it made me laugh.” I pause. “I remember one time she made hot pepper pancakes. Those weren’t bad.”

Julian is quiet. The rhythm of his breathing has grown steady.

“She used to play games with me too,” I say.

“She did?” Julian’s voice has a touch of awe in it.

“Yeah. Real games, too, not just the development stuff they advocate in
The Book of Shhh
. She used to pretend…” I stop, biting my lip, worried I’ve gone too far.

“Pretend what?”