Wasteland (Wasteland - Trilogy) (12 page)

Sarah, blushing furiously, gestured at Esther to stand near her.

“Where were you?” she hissed. Esther only shrugged.

Today’s destination appeared to be what was once a large field that lay to the side of the highway. Over the years, the sun had hardened the land, which was now covered with an intricate network of fissures and cracks. Strange pools of relatively clean, white sand were scattered across the field at intervals. The remains of a large building, once resplendent, sagged in the distance, past a broken sign reading
SKYVIEW LINKS
. A windowless structure, no more than a large metal shed, stood closer to the highway. Its doors were held fast with chains and heavy locks.

“In here,” said Rhea, nodding at the shed.

The shack was most likely a garage, the kind of structure that housed cars, motorcycles, and other gas-filled vehicles. Judging from the heavy scuff marks on the doors and the locks themselves, it was obvious that others had tried here without success. But today, the team had brought a crowbar with them. After repeated efforts by all five, they succeeded in smashing open the locks.

Inside, the team found a row of boxlike vehicles. They were not much bigger than bicycles, only with four wheels, and were clearly meant to carry two passengers on their cracked leather seats. The side of each vehicle contained a rusted metal cap.

Elated, Rhea and her team tried to unscrew the caps in order to get to the gas inside; but the job was harder than they expected. And even once they managed to pry them off, it turned out that the tanks were nearly empty. For all of their time and effort, they collected no more than half a bottle’s worth of gas.

Throughout, Esther attempted to participate. She dutifully took her turn with the crowbar, tried to open the tanks, and helped coil away the rubber tubing once the small amount of gas had been Harvested. But her mind was not on it.

“Try to be friendly,” Sarah implored her in a whisper. Their work done for now, the team was on a break, sitting in a loose circle in the shade of an abandoned truck in their dusty robes and eating the meager lunch they had brought. The air was heavy with humidity, a sure sign of an oncoming storm. “They’re not so bad. Try talking to them.” But Esther made a face.

“About what?” she whispered back.

Sarah shook her head hopelessly. Then she turned back to the others and made a great show of listening as she laughed and nodded.

Esther couldn’t understand why her sister bothered. It was apparent the three others had little use for Sarah and even less for Esther. Not that she minded; as far as she could tell, their conversation was worthless, less interesting than the droning of bees. One girl boasted about her recipe for wheat porridge. Another described a tattered bedspread stolen from a recent Gleaning and how it matched her one curtain. And then there were the endless, tedious anecdotes about their men, for all three were partnered.

When the gossip turned to partnerings, Rhea pointedly leaned close to the other two girls and whispered. After a moment, the three shared a harsh laugh, glancing sideways at Sarah. The older girl acted as if she was in on the joke, smiling and bobbing her head, even though it was clearly at her expense.

At seventeen, Sarah was an old maid, long past the age of partnering. What made it odd was that she had never attempted to find a partner, despite the fact that over the years, many boys in town had expressed interest in her. Rafe in particular pursued her, to no avail. It seemed as if her sister had been waiting for someone special, Esther thought. But who?

The girls’ chatter became faint as Esther tuned it out. In its place, she heard someone else’s voice: Caleb’s.

In her mind’s eye, Esther could see his face, the set of his jawline, the haunted expression in his dark eyes. And although she despised what he had said at the town meeting, she now realized things might not be as simple as she thought. She also remembered how he spoke to her afterward, directly and openly, and how he listened to her,
really
listened in a way no one ever had before, not even Skar.

The inane drone of the girls’ voices cut into her thoughts. Esther was jerked back to reality and with it came the realization:
She didn’t want to be here anymore.
She looked up at the sky, where her friend’s smoke signals had been. The clouds had thickened and grown darker.

She made up her mind and stood.

“Esther?”

She was already across the small parking lot and hoisting her bicycle by the handlebars when her sister grabbed her by the arm.

“What are you doing?” Sarah whispered. She sounded panicked.

“I have to get out of here,” said Esther. But her sister refused to let go.

“Please,” she said in a low voice. “Just a few more hours, until the rain passes. I promise, once we’re in the shed, I’ll keep them away from you. But if you go now, it’ll be over for you. I won’t be able to save you.”

Esther attempted to shake her off. “It’s never as bad as you say it’s going to be. Shunning’s only for people who are sick or for
real
criminals.” She had one foot on a pedal and was trying to take off.

“But that was before. These are Levi’s new rules. And you know there’s no way that Rhea isn’t going to report this. She’s been waiting for the opportunity all day.”

Esther glanced over at the other girls. They were still sitting where they were, watching her with their mouths open in shock. And it was true that Rhea was staring at her with an appraising look, a faint smile on her face.

“Please, Esther.” Although she kept her voice down, Sarah couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice. “You’re going to get Shunned. And no one will be able to help you.”

But Esther had broken free and was pedaling away, as fast as she could. The town was five or six miles away. She would have to hurry before the rain came.

“H
IT ME
,” C
ALEB SAID
.

He stood in front of a red-haired boy, with one arm extended and relaxed, palm facing out. The boy was a husky fourteen-year-old, stocky and exceptionally strong; he figured it was the reason he was chosen. Eager to prove himself, he tensed up his arm and punched the open hand as hard as he could.

The boy was surprised and then embarrassed to see what little effect it had. The stranger barely registered the blow. He was about to ask for a second chance, but Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, a sturdy girl with close-set eyes.

“Hit me,” he said to her.

Seven townspeople were lined up in the large, echoing room that had once been a bank. They had been excused from their various jobs for this first round of training and now stood in the thick heat and humidity of the November day, their arms by their sides, awaiting instruction from the stranger who was going to teach them how to save their town.

The red-haired boy was especially excited to be included in the first group. Like everyone in town, he was familiar with the details of the stranger’s victory over the five mutants. He knew of his impressive fighting skills and his strange new weapon, which was capable of firing several rocks in quick succession.

The boy looked forward not only to learning from Caleb firsthand, but maybe even following him into battle. He and his partner had sustained serious damage to their storefront home in the recent mutant attack, their windows smashed and much of their stored goods destroyed. Since then, he had been hungering for revenge. Today, he had come half expecting to be handed his own weapon, given instructions on how to use it, and maybe even led to the mutant camp for some kind of showdown.

But he had been surprised. So far, the lesson was nearly all talk. What’s more, most of what the stranger had to say was downright bewildering.

“I can’t teach you how to fight,” Caleb said at the very beginning. At this, everyone shifted on their feet, glancing at one another and murmuring. “Fighting isn’t in your hands or your feet, and it isn’t about getting hold of some fancy weapon. Mostly, it’s in your head.”

The boy with the red hair wiped sweat off his brow as he mulled over these peculiar words.

By now, Caleb had worked his way to the end of the line. Everyone had punched or slapped his hand—some harder than others, some less eagerly, some clumsily. The boy brightened up at this part of the lesson; this was what he had come to do. He assumed Caleb would now get down to business, would talk about the techniques of hitting and fighting and pick out and praise the strongest participants. Maybe he’d even spar with the best student and again, the boy felt his hopes rise.

But once more, he was surprised.

“Fighting isn’t a game,” Caleb said. “You should only do it because you have no other choice. And you’ve got to know that your enemies aren’t just stronger than you. They’re smarter, too.”

The boy frowned. He was not quite sure he followed what Caleb was saying. He was also not sure he liked the sound of what he was hearing.

“To win, you’ve got to keep your mind clear,” continued Caleb. “You’ve got to see the situation as it is and use every advantage you got. But you can’t keep a cool head if you put your feelings into your fists.”

He turned to the red-haired boy, who was now examining his hands. “For instance,” he said, “I could tell by the way you hit that you’re impatient and you want to fight.” Caleb imitated the boy perfectly, his eager stance, the overly enthusiastic punch. “You want to prove to me and everyone here that you’re strong.”

There was suppressed laughter down the line and the boy frowned, trying to understand what had been said and if he had just been insulted. But before he could say anything, Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, the girl with the close-set eyes.

“You think this is some kind of game,” he said to her. “It’s like you don’t even think the threat is real.” The girl giggled, then blushed, staring at the floor.

Caleb moved to the next person. “The way you hit tells me you’re mad, maybe at me,” he said to the boy, a hulking sixteen-year-old. “You don’t like being told what to do.” The boy looked startled; then he glowered at the stranger, his fists clenched.

Caleb continued to work his way down the line. He stopped in front of each person and told each one what he thought he or she was feeling:

You’re scared. You think you know better. You care too much about pleasing others. You’re bored.

When he was done, Caleb turned to face everyone, his expression serious. “Think about what I said,” he said. “Try to leave your emotions at home. And I’ll see you back here tomorrow.”

At first, the red-haired boy darkened with anger. But when he thought it over, he was astonished. It was amazing that the stranger could know so much about him by just a single punch to the hand.

By the look on everyone else’s face, he knew he was not alone. Feeling a first glimmer of understanding, he stepped forward to speak his mind.

But he was stopped in his tracks.

Without warning, a gust of wind swept through the broken windows that surrounded them, swirling grit and paper across the room. Everyone simultaneously glanced outside.

Overhead, the sky had changed to a deep and unnatural green and purple. Then, it seemed as if all the air was violently sucked out of the room; shards of broken glass rattled in their wooden frames, some snapping off and sailing into the street.

Caleb moved deeper into the room and everyone followed. They stood against the back wall in order to get as far away as possible from the gaping windows and open door.

Even if the red-haired boy were to speak now, no one could hear him. For with a deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning split the darkening sky.

A moment later, rain began to fall: fat drops freely splashed through the broken windows, forming puddles on the marble floor. Outside, the drops marked the dusty ground vividly, faster and faster. They covered the hardened dirt with dark spots before converging and turning into deadly pools of mud and water.

Half an hour later, the storm was still raging. Looking onto a deserted street, Esther watched the steady downpour from the decrepit lobby of Joseph’s home, the Gideon Putnam Hotel.

When the first drops had begun to fall, she leaped off her bike and wheeled it into the nearest building, thankful for any shelter at all. Even so, she was aware of the heavy sound of rain as it thrummed on the sidewalk and splashed through the gaping windows and doors, soaking the faded carpet. She moved deeper into the building interior, making certain to avoid the walls, which had begun to weep moisture.

She berated herself again for not thinking, not planning.

It was a stupidly close call. Moments earlier, an unlucky gust of wind could have driven the downpour straight at her, through the broken glass of the front door. She knew all too well what a single raindrop could do if it found its way into your eyes, your mouth, or a scratch on your skin that hadn’t healed. First came the bone-crushing fatigue and telltale lesions; then headaches and fever. These were followed by severe stomach pains, vomiting, and delirium.

After that, she was not exactly sure what happened. For no one had ever been allowed to stay in town once the symptoms appeared.

Esther had been on her way to the school, where she knew Caleb was staying, when the storm hit. Now she had to wait until it was totally spent before she dared to continue on her way.