The Garden of Darkness (28 page)

When they got back to the shelter, Tork looked at them appraisingly.

“We should go on a romp,” said Tork. “Before you leave.”

“In the houses of the dead?” asked the little one called Leaf.

“In the houses of the dead,” said Tork.

“Yes!” said Stuffo.

“What about the supplies?” asked Jem.

“The supplies,” said Tork. “I think I’m tryin’ to forget you’re leavin’. But the houses of the dead are prime. We find all kinds of stuff in them. We found a music box with a dancing bear on it just a couple days ago. And a bunch of china statues—girls with sheep and princesses and stuff.”

“They were seriously fun to smash,” said Myra.

“Maybe next time,” said Jem.

Tork perked up. “Next time,” he said.

Clare and Jem followed the wild children to what they said was a prime warehouse for what Tork called “things you eat what don’t go bad.”

In a while, Clare noted that they seemed to be on the fringes of Chinatown. Huge Chinese letters, fallen from some of the buildings, lay in the street, and at one end of the road was a structure that looked like a pagoda.

“The warehouse’s not too far from here,” said Myra. “We should be able to fill up your wagon with stuff from there.”

“We thought warehouses might have too much of one thing,” said Jem. “Like a mountain of tires. Or a thousand pounds of beef jerky.”

“This one’s got everything,” said Tork.

The day was warm. Myra helped Clare out of some of her warmer garments, and Jem went sleeveless. One of the children gave Clare some bangles, and soon she jingled as she walked.

“Almost there,” announced Tork. “I’m sayin’—this warehouse is prime. You’ll see.”

And it was. They loaded the cart until the sun was high in the sky.

Afterwards they made their way back to the alley, joking and laughing, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. They turned a corner.

And there was a deer standing utterly still, staring at them.

When it saw Sheba, it snuffed the air before giving a great leap and springing away. It ran down the center of the street. Clare couldn’t hold Bear back. He ran, eating up the ground with his long stride.

Tork yelled “meat!” and the children grabbed their sticks out of the back of the wagon and gave chase.

“They don’t have a chance of catching it,” said Clare.

“Bear might,” said Jem. They could hear shouts and hoots in the distance.

They waited. And then, not so very far away, they heard a huge crash, as if an enormous pane of glass had shattered. There was silence for a moment, and then howls from the children.

Minutes later, Myra came running up the street.

“You got one great dog,” she said. “But we need the wagon.”

“What happened?” asked Jem.

“I think Clare’s dog scairt that deer almost out of his skin; he jumped through a store window, clear through, and then Tork cut its throat with a big piece of glass. Bear’s eatin’ his share. Very messy.” She stopped, meditatively. “Tork cut himself on the glass too. There’s blood everywhere.”

Myra, Clare and Jem got up on the cart, and Myra guided them.

The wild pack was standing around the front of a store; shattered glass gleamed on the road. The deer lay on a display table, and blood dripped from its throat adding to the red pool already on the floor. Tork stood over the deer, a cloth, already soaked through with blood, wrapped around his hand.

“I should have put the cloth on my hand
before
I kilt the deer with that glass,” he said.

But then they had their hands full, because Sheba, scenting blood, began backing away, and the cart began to twist sideways.

“Easy,” Clare said. “Easy does it.” She turned to the others. “If you want to load up the deer,” she said, “you’ll have to wipe off as much blood as you can.”

“Okay,” said Tork. “But first
I
got to stop bleeding. That glass just slices right through everything.”

“Let me look,” said Jem.

Clare couldn’t see Tork’s expression, but she heard Myra say, “Go on, let him look. He’s no traitor.”

Jem took Tork’s hand in his own. The cut, Clare could see, was deep and gaping, and Jem bound it tight. “You’ll carry the scar,” he said. “And you need an antibiotic called penicillin. I’ll get it for you at a pharmacy on the way back.”

“Can you remember to take the medication ten days in a row?” asked Clare.

“I can do that,” said Tork. “I’ve took medicine before. When I were little. My mom—” He fell silent.

They wiped as much blood as they could from the deer and then dragged it to the cart. Sheba was skittish, but didn’t try to back away again.

“Meat tonight, meat tonight, meat tonight,” the little ones sang.

“I am a
provider
!” yelled Tork. He waved his good hand in the air, his contemplative mood gone.

C
LARE AND
J
EM
got ready to leave early the next day, even though they had been up late feasting on venison. Myra stood and looked at them as they packed. Tork was crying.

They explained they had to rejoin their friends and about the quest for the Master.

“It’s possible he’s found a cure for Pest,” said Jem. “And if he has, you’d all be safe. We could grow into one big family.”

“If he has a cure, he has a price,” said Tork. “Maybe we just ain’t meant to grow up.”

Clare put her arms around Myra and Tork, and suddenly it was a melee of hugs and tears.

“You belong here in the city, I guess,” said Clare. “But we don’t.”

“You can come and join us whenever you want,” said Jem. “I’ll draw you a map before we leave.”

“A map?” asked little Stuffo, as if Jem had casually mentioned building a surface-to-air missile.

“I can figure out a map, Stuffo,” said Tork. Then he looked doubtfully at Jem. “But I would get Clare to help you make it if I was you. You know, so it’s clear.”

“You think Clare’s more accurate?” asked Jem.

“She is with a shovel,” said Tork, admiration in his voice.

It took Sheba a few moments to start moving. The wagon was loaded with as much as it could carry: flour, corn meal, cured meat, cheese, canned vegetables, sugar, salt, kerosene, batteries. And then there was tea for Ramah, a feather mask from a costume shop for Bird Boy and model horses and books for Mirri and Sarai. It had taken Clare a while to find Abel a gift, but she had finally settled on a T-shirt that read: ‘Happiness is a Rainbow.’

Sheba pulled into the harness with a will, and the cart slowly began to move. Clare and Jem walked beside the horse. The street they followed was broad and straight, and every time that Clare looked back, she could see the wild pack standing and watching them. Finally, as the road curved, Clare saw Tork and Myra put some young ones on their shoulders, and they all waved madly. Then they were gone.

A
FTER BEING WITH
the wild pack, the city was weirdly silent. On the flat, they found they could make good time. When they reached the hilly roads at the edge of the city, however, Sheba strained more and more at the harness. At the top of one of the hills, they had to stop to let Sheba rest and give her water. Going down was even harder than going up. Soon the terrain began to change. Brush grew into the road and there were houses instead of apartments, some of them perched precariously on the hills. As evening came in, they began to leave the houses behind. The road leveled out, and there were fewer obstacles.

Then suddenly Clare stopped walking.

“Jem,” said Clare.

“What is it?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

Jem stepped back and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I feel weak, I have chills and my head aches.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did.”

Jem put his hand on her forehead.

“You’re feverish,” he said. Then he pulled her shirt away from her neck. He sighed with relief.

“No sign of Pest, though.”

And then Clare was sick, right in front of Jem, right in a splotch of withered grass by the side of the road.

“Sorry,” she said.

“We’ll stop for the night. As long as it’s not Pest, we can deal with it.”

“Are you sure it’s not Pest?”

“Sure.”

“I can lie in the wagon, and we can keep moving.”

Jem looked at her. “You’ll puke on our provisions.”

“Point taken.”

Jem got her some water from a nearby stream, and then he unhitched Sheba, and they set up camp for the night. Jem boiled the water carefully before giving it to Clare.

“I’m going to hobble her and let her graze on the new grass for a bit,” he said. He came over to Clare and gently brushed the hair back out of her face.

“I feel awful,” said Clare.

“It isn’t Pest,” Jem repeated.

“Do you think it’s the fever the wild pack talked about? That killed some of them?”

“You’re not going to die. You didn’t come through the first wave of Pest to die of some kind of stomach bug. I’ll make you some soup. I’m betting that venison you were digging into at the feast last night was under-cooked.”

“You’re not sick.”

“I didn’t dig in with quite so much enthusiasm.”

For the next few hours, Clare gave herself up to the fever and vomiting. Finally she slept for a little while.

“I feel better,” she said when she woke.

“Really? You’re the color of cheese.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for travel. Can we stay here tonight and start late tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Jem pulled the sleeping bags and mats out of the wagon; it was warm enough to sleep without the tent. Clare didn’t feel like vomiting anymore, and when Jem put his hand on her forehead and then her throat, she didn’t shiver.

“Your fever’s broken,” said Jem. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I told you I felt better.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t Pest,” said Jem.

“I thought you were
certain
it wasn’t Pest.”

“Yeah, well. There wasn’t much point in worrying you. I was worrying enough for both of us.”

It took a while for Clare to get comfortable. First she burrowed deeply into the sleeping bag to stay warm. Then she overheated and tried lying halfway outside the bag, her arms behind her head.

“Are you through squirming?” asked Jem.

“Sorry.”

She settled, and she realized how deeply tired she was. She looked up: the night was like velvet, and there was no moon.

Finally they lay side by side under the brilliantly starry sky.

“Jem?” Clare said.

“What?”

“I don’t think there were ever this many stars before.” She thought he would say something about the lack of air pollution or the clear air of the hills.

“Probably not,” said Jem. “Probably not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHILDREN’S CHILDREN

T
HEY WALKED AND
talked, and it was on that walk that she really began to know Jem. She was, in fact, so absorbed in their conversation that she didn’t even particularly notice when they passed a body slouched by the side of the road. Both of them unconsciously gave it a wide berth. It was Bear who should have put Clare on the alert, but she was too busy listening to Jem to notice how he moved between her and the body, ears pricked, at the ready.

When the body lifted its head and stared at Clare with red-rimmed eyes, she had to stifle a scream.

“It’s a Cured,” said Jem quietly.

“Do we run?” asked Clare.

“We run.”

Clare got Sheba into a shambling trot, but the Cured made no attempt to follow. He simply lowered his head again.

Sheba slowed to a walk. Jem put a hand on Clare’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “Secretariat has out-run the Cured.”

“He didn’t look well,” said Clare. “Maybe they’re dying out.”

“Even if they are, the world still won’t be safe. As supplies get tight, we’re going to have to do more than check behind people’s ears before we trust them.”

“You trusted Abel as quickly as I did. And Bird Boy. And Ramah.”

“Ramah’s pretty obviously all right.”

“You have a crush on Ramah.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Absolutely.”

Clare smiled at Jem. And then it occurred to Clare that it was odd that the person she now trusted most in the world had been there in high school with her all along.

T
HAT NIGHT,
C
LARE
was down in her dreams, struggling with something vast and evil, just as Beowulf had with Grendel, just as Perseus had with the sea monster, but she was only Clare and the thing was as large as the universe. She called out “Michael” and watched as the letters of his name trickled one by one into the void. She was suffocating and there was no one to rescue her.

Jem woke her up. They were squashed together in the tent that they had hastily put up the night before, when the weather had abruptly changed, and it had started to drizzle.

“You were having a bad dream,” said Jem.

“Sorry if I woke you,” she said.

“Clare—”

“What?”

“It’s morning. Almost. And I have to go pee. That’s all. I’ll be right back.”