Raven: A Delirium Short Story (2 page)

The gutters are running with trash, whipping small bits of paper and disposable cups into the drain. I hate the city. Wish I was out with the rest of the group at the warehouse, packing up, counting heads, measuring supplies. Wish I was anywhere, really—fighting through the Wilds, which are always changing, always growing; fighting the Scavengers, even.

Anywhere but this towering gray city, where even the sky is held at bay.

Where we are as small as ants.

The van smells like mildew and tobacco and, weirdly, like peanut butter. I crack open a window.

“Wh teRoman">at was that about?” Tack asks.

“Didn’t feel good,” I say, staring straight ahead, willing him not to ask any more questions. Two straight weeks of getting sick in the mornings. At first I thought it was just the stress—Lena captured, the whole plan out of our hands. Waiting. Watching. Hoping she’d get it right.

Patience was never my strong suit.

“You don’t look good,” he says. And then, “What’s going on, Raven? Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “My stomach’s just fucked up, that’s all. It’s that goddamn jerky we’ve been eating.”

Tack relaxes a little. He stops white-knuckling the wheel, and the muscle in his jaw goes still. I feel a wave of guilt, a surge even worse than the nausea. Lying is a defense, like a porcupine’s quills or a bear’s claws. And my time in the Wilds has made me very good at it. But I don’t like lying to Tack.

He’s practically the only person I have left.

“Is she yours?”

Those were Tack’s first words to me. I can still see him the way he was then: skinnier, even, than he is now. Big hands. Two nose rings. Eyes half-closed but alert, like a lizard’s; hair falling practically to the bridge of his nose. Sitting in the corner of the sickroom, hands and ankles bound. Pockmarked with mosquito bites and bloody with scratches.

I’d been in the Wilds for only a month. I was lucky, and found my way to a homestead within six hours of crossing from Yarmouth. Double lucky, actually. Only a week later, the homestead relocated, moved into New Hampshire, just south of Rochester. Rumors of a raid on the Wilds had everyone jumpy. I’d made it just in time.

I had to. Blue was barely alive, and I had no way of feeding her. I’d run in a panic, blind to anything but the need to disappear; had no supplies, no knowledge, no hope of making it on my own. My shoes were too tight and left raw, bloody blisters the size of quarters after only a few hours of walking. I didn’t know how to navigate. Didn’t keep track of where I was going. Got thirsty but didn’t think of sipping from a stream because I was worried it would make me sick.

Idiot. If I hadn’t wandered into the homestead, I would have died. And she would have too.

Little baby Blue.

I hadn’t believed in God since I was a little kid and saw my dad take my mom by the hair and slam her face-first into the kitchen counter, watched a spray of blood on the linoleum and saw one of her teeth skitter across the floor, white and shiny as a die. I knew then there was no one watching over us.

But my first night in the Wilds, when the forest opened up like a jaw and I saw lights glowing fuzzily in the darkness, small halos beyond the rain, and heard voicekin heard s—when Grandma put a blanket around my shoulders, and Mari, twenty-two years old, who’d just given birth to her second stillborn, took Blue in her arms and to her breast and cried silently the whole time she was suckling, when I knew we’d both been saved—that night, I thought I knew God, just for a second.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I said to Tack. Only I didn’t know his name then. He didn’t have a name then. Didn’t have a group, or a homestead; didn’t belong anywhere. We called him the Thief.

The Thief laughed. “You aren’t, huh? What about all the freedom on the other side of the walls?”

“You’re a Scavenger,” I said, even though I hardly knew what the term meant. I hadn’t seen one yet, thank God, and wouldn’t for two years, during a relocation that wiped out half our number. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

He flinched. “I’m not a Scavenger.” Then he lifted his chin and stared at me. That was the first time I realized he was probably my age. His clothes, the dirtiness of him, his attitude—I’d assumed he was older. “I’m not anything.”

“You’re a thief,” I said, looking away. Only a month in the Wilds—I hadn’t even begun to shake my fear of them. Boys.

He shrugged. “I’m a survivor.”

“You were stealing our food,” I said. I didn’t add:
Everyone thought I was to blame
. “That makes you a Scavenger in my opinion.”

For the past several weeks, the homesteaders had noticed supplies gone missing, some traps empty that should have been full, a jug or two of clean water mysteriously emptied overnight. The group had grown tense, suspicious, and I became the prime suspect. I was the newest, after all. No one knew who I was or where I’d come from or what I was about, and the thefts had started soon after I’d arrived with Blue.

So this guy named Gray, who was kind of the group leader at the time, had started surveillance without telling anyone. In the middle of the night he got out of bed and circulated to all the snares and traps, checked the storerooms, made sure everyone from the homestead was exactly where they should be. On the second day of his rounds, he caught Tack wrestling a rabbit out of one of our traps. Stealing. Tack nearly put a knife through Gray, trying to escape. But he missed and just sliced off a chunk of Gray’s shoulder blade, and Gray managed to shout and pin Tack to the ground, and since then he’d been our prisoner and everyone had been debating what to do about him.

“Welcome to freedom,” he said. And he spit. Right next to his feet, on the ground. “Everyone has an opinion.”

I turned my attention back to Blue. Grandma had told me not to get too attached.
So many of them don’t make it out here,
she’d said. But I was already attached. From the second I found her; fnd found hrom the second I felt the skating pressure of her heartbeat beneath her tiny ribs. I knew she was mine—my job, my duty to protect.

At first she’d barely taken any food from Mari, but after two weeks she was eating better and beginning to gain weight. When Mari nursed, I sat next to her, sometimes with an arm around Blue, like I could absorb them both. Like I was the one sending life out through my fingertips and into Blue’s veins and heart and mouth. I kept Blue with me all the time. Grandma gave me an old baby carrier, faded to a dull and genderless gray from so many washings, so I could strap her to my chest when I was helping the others with the rounds.

But then she’d gotten sick again. She fussed and wouldn’t stay asleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Her nose was always running, and on the second day, her fever was so bad, I could feel the heat of her body when I held my hand six inches from her chest. She stopped feeding, and she cried for hours at a time. Everyone told me it was just a cold, and she’d get over it.

For three days, I’d been moving through a thick fog of exhaustion, a relentless tiredness like nothing I’d ever known. At night, I stayed awake and whispered to her, rocking her even as she tried to push me off, keeping her cool with wet cloths. We had moved, both of us, into the sickroom. Tack had been placed there too, temporarily, while the other homesteaders convened in the main room and talked about whether to let him go and trust that he wouldn’t steal from us again, or whether he should be punished, even killed.

The law of the Wilds was just as harsh, in its way, as the law on the other side of the fence.

Tack watched me as I bent over Blue, murmuring to her, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She wasn’t crying anymore. Her eyes were half-closed, and she barely stirred when I touched her. Her breathing was short and shallow.

“It’s RSV,” Tack spoke up suddenly. “She needs medicine.”

“You some kind of doctor?” I fired back. But I was scared. I wished she would cry, open her mouth, respond to me in any way. But she was just lying there, fighting for breath. And I knew then that it wasn’t just a cold. Whatever she had was getting worse.

“My mother was a nurse,” Tack said calmly. This startled me. It was weird to think of the Thief, the wild and lawless boy, as having a mother—as having a past at all. I looked at him.

“Untie me,” he said, his voice low, convincing, “and I’ll help you.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

There’s a part of me—a big part—that’s hoping Lena won’t show up. She might have gotten stuck at the border, or caught by a patrol without an ID. She might have gotten lost. She might just be too late. Then Tack and I won’t have to get involved, won’t risk a big fat stinking mess.

But we’ve trained her too well, and at a couple of minutes before te" fes befon a.m., I spot her moving up the street, head down against the rain, which has petered out to a slow drizzle. She’s wearing clothes that don’t belong to her, except for the wind breaker, which she must have taken from the safe house. Still, her walk is unmistakable: light on her feet, kind of bouncing on her toes, as if she might break into a run at any second.

Tack spots her the same time I do and sinks down a little in the front seat, as if worried she might spot us. But she’s totally focused. She barely pauses at the entrance to the clinic. She slips inside.

Any moment now. The air inside the van is humid, and my skin feels sticky. The windows are fogged from our breath. I feel another roll of nausea and fight it back. No time for that.

After a few minutes, Tack sighs and reaches for the jacket balled up on the seat between us. He shakes it out and shoves his arms, hard, into the sleeves. He looks funny in a suit jacket, like a bear dressed up in a costume for the circus. I would never tell him that, though.

“Ready?” he says.

“Don’t forget this.” I pass him a small laminated ID. It’s so old and stained, the picture is nearly indistinguishable—which is good, because its original owner, Dr. Howard Rivers, was about twenty pounds heavier than Tack and had a decade on him.

Then again, Howard Rivers wasn’t actually Howard Rivers, but Edward Kauffman, a respected doctor in Maine who worked to keep the
deliria
out of our schools and homes, who had ties to the governor, who subsidized medical centers in poorer parts of town. Secretly, though, he was a radical and controversial resister, famous for performing under-the-table abortions on uncureds who’d gotten pregnant and were desperate to conceal it.

Over the years he established identities for a dozen fake doctors so he could increase his shipments of medicine and antibiotics, which he then distributed to Invalids in the Wilds.

Edward Kauffman, the original, is dead now—has been dead for two years. He was outed in a police sting operation and executed only two weeks later. But many of his pseudonyms, his fake identities, survived. They’re healthy and practicing still.

Tack clips the ID to his jacket. “How do I look?” he says.

“Medical,” I answer.

He checks his reflection in the rearview and tries unsuccessfully again to mash down his hair. “Don’t forget,” he says. “Parking lot on Twenty-Fourth. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“We’ll be there,” I say, ignoring the weird feeling in my stomach. More than nausea. Nerves. I hate being nervous. It’s a weakness. It reminds me of the person I used to be, and the ticking quiet of the old house, my father brewing, growing his anger like a storm.

Every time I have to kill someone, s pll someI pretend he has my father’s face.

“Be careful, Rae.” For a second, I get a glimpse of Michael, the boy no one sees. Face open like a kid’s. Scared. “I wish you’d let me do the heavy lifting.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I press my fingers against my lips, bring them to his chest. It’s our sign. Neither one of us is super touchy-feely, and besides, it’s too risky to kiss in Zombieland. “See you on the other side.”

“On the other side,” he parrots, then slips out of the van, jogging across the street pooled with rain.

I count off sixty seconds, make some last-minute adjustments to my gear, flip down the mirror, and check my teeth. Feel for the gun concealed in my jacket and check the supplies in my right jeans pocket. All good. All there. Count another sixty seconds, which helps me ignore the nerves. Nothing to be afraid of.

I know what I’m doing. We all do. Too well.

Sometimes I imagine that Tack and I will just crap out—flake on the whole war, the struggle, the resistance. Say good-bye and see you never. We’ll go up north and build a homestead together, far away from everyone and everything. We know how to survive. We could do it. Trap and hunt and fish for our food, grow what we can, pop out a whole brood of kids and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Let it blow itself to pieces if it wants to.