I pass dilapidated buildings, most of which are old houses, crumbling now and enveloped in moss. Many of them are piles of rubble. The silence is beautiful.
I notice a stack of bones on the pavement. A whole skeleton perfectly decayed—white and dry—pulled together into a neat pile, the skull balancing on top. Who did this? And when? Could these bones belong to Abel? No sooner do I think this than I realize it’s a ludicrous idea. How would he have made it all the way out here? Plus he’s been dead no longer than a couple of days. There’s no way he could be all bones yet. Is there? Which stage of decay is he in? Is he oozing and bloated? Is he filling with maggots?
I try to picture Abel as I last saw him: waving good-bye from the entrance to my building; giving me a theatrical wink when I tightened the straps on my backpack containing the tree clippings; congratulating me. He had no idea he was as good as dead.
And I might be dead if I’d stayed in the pod. If I’d been held at the border. If Quinn and Bea hadn’t saved me. Quinn looked so hurt when I left them. He’ll probably head back home and tell his father all about it. I’m sure he wants to be a good guy, but at the end of the day he’s Premium, and Premiums are not to be trusted. They have too much to lose. And I couldn’t bring Bea along; people in love are the most dangerous of all, the most likely to do something rash. I proved that. I wanted to love Abel. Now that he’s dead I almost feel that I did love him even though nothing happened between us. Since when does someone being dead make you feel more affection for him?
I’m doing it again, thinking about Abel when I should be focused. I could be ambushed at any time if I don’t watch out. The place appears to be deserted, but that doesn’t mean it is. There could be drifters anywhere. And Breathe could be out here, too.
Suddenly there is a rumble, like an old wheel lumbering toward me. I spin around and drop to the ground. I see nothing suspicious. The road is clear. Then the rumble sounds again and I see it’s coming from a lamppost that has fallen against a building. The wind is rolling the lamppost back and forth on a window ledge, creating the deep echo.
The last time I was out of the pod Silas was with me. He had a gun, and I had a knife. No one came near us. We didn’t see one drifter. Why couldn’t I have remembered to bring a weapon? I need to protect myself. But with what? I scan the street. There’s nothing I could use except rocks and broken bricks. But if someone gets too close to me, rocks will be useless. I need something to swing.
Though most of the street is lined with piles of rubble, some of the houses are still standing. And if I’m lucky, there will be kitchens in these houses, and knives in the kitchens, whole drawers filled with blades and skewers. And I’m cold, despite the one green glove and sweater Quinn gave me. The rain has turned to sleet now and the scarf around my head is completely sodden. I’ve nothing waterproof with me at all.
The nearest houses have had their doors kicked in and windows broken, which means they’ve probably been pillaged already. I pass a gas station with several cars rusting in the lot. One car even has the gas pump sticking out of its tank. On the other side of the road is a small hospital. I could definitely try in there. But I’m scared of what I’d find—how many stacks of old bones, how many beds of bodies. Up ahead are more houses, big ones with heavy wooden doors, and not all of them look like they’ve been ransacked. Apart from the moss covering them, they could very well be inhabited. That’s not possible though; I banish the thought because it’s actually scarier than imagining the houses empty.
My teeth are chattering. I decide to take shelter in one of the grander-looking houses.
I climb a low stone wall and make my way through a front garden, trying not to slip on the slick, mossy stones.
I wish I hadn’t left Quinn and Bea. It would be better to be with people. Any people, so long as they are alive. I am not afraid of ghosts, usually. But something about The Outlands makes hauntings seem almost plausible.
I push on the heavy, peeling door and it opens with a sour creak.
12
QUINN
“What is she up to?” I ask, taking Bea by the arm as we watch Alina, who is several hundred feet in front of us, mounting a wall and making her way toward a pretty dodgy-looking house. “We’re going in after her.” Bea shakes her head and pulls up her hood.
“I would, but … no, I don’t think so.” Sometimes I want to shake her, tell her to stand up straighter and fight back, but I know that wouldn’t be fair. What right do I have to tell her to get her act together? She’d think I was being an insensitive moron, a Premium who didn’t understand, and she’d be right.
“What do you suggest we do?” I ask.
“Maybe she’s meeting someone. For all we know, that’s the Resistance hideout. And if it is, she’ll be safe and we’ll be in danger.”
“If she’s marching in to the safety of her own people, why’s she so jumpy?”
“Aren’t terrorists usually edgy, Quinn?”
“It doesn’t look safe. She may need help.”
“Follow her then. Go and save the day, why don’t you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the fact that we’ve been creeping after her.”
“What’s eating you?” We don’t have time for this.
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m. Absolutely. Fine,” she says, just like that, as though each word is followed by a period. Why do girls do that?
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Really? What are you sorry for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well then don’t say sorry,” she snaps. We don’t have time to argue; Alina is already inside the house and we’re outside getting drenched.
“You know, I thought you had more integrity,” I say.
“Integrity? What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything wrong. Tell me what I did wrong?”
“You won’t help Alina.”
“We’re following her, aren’t we, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want us to. What more do you want? If we hear something, we’ll go in, otherwise …” She trails off and crosses her arms in front of her chest to show me she isn’t moving, that she’s resolute, that she’d rather stand out in this clawing sleet than go into that house. If I rush in to protect Alina, will Bea come with me? I can’t exactly leave her out on the road. I pull at the strings of my hood and sigh. Bea isn’t looking at me and scowling anymore; she’s staring at the road ahead like she is mesmerized by it.
“Quinn,” she whispers.
“What?”
“Look.” She clutches my sleeve with one hand and with the other slowly extends her arm to point at something in the distance. Her eyes are wide and her grip tightens. I spin around, ready to throw a punch if I have to, but I can’t see anything threatening at all.
“What is it?”
“Look up,” she says, and I do, right into the cloudburst. “No. At the house. The window.” A thin figure is standing at the upstairs window of the house Alina went into.
We are being watched.
“Now what?” Bea is still clinging to me with one hand, her other hand on her facemask as her breathing quickens.
When I thought about protecting Alina from dangers in that house, I have to admit, I didn’t really think there would be anything particularly menacing to protect her from. I just thought it would be a brilliant opportunity to seem brave without really having to do very much. So now what? I poke the ground with the toe of my boot.
“Quinn,” Bea presses. I could wrestle a man to the ground if I had to, but what if the house is full of drifters? What if the house is full of dead tourists and empty airtanks?
“Let me think,” I say.
“We’re going in,” Bea announces all of a sudden, pulling the knife from the loop in my pants and unsheathing it. “The hammer,” she reminds me. I throw my backpack to the ground and rummage around until I find it. The hammer is smaller than I’d like it to be. “We need a plan,” she says.
I stare up at the window as the figure slowly draws the curtains and di
sappears. “I suppose we should try not to get killed,” I suggest.
13
ALINA
Each strip of yellow paisley wallpaper in the hallway is unfurling. The beige carpeted floor is stained and moldy in most places. To the right, a large set of open double doors leads to a grand sitting room, and at the end of the hall is a kitchen. I start by taking off my soaked outer layers and leaving them in a pile by the front door. The house is cold, but at least the wind and rain can’t get to me in here. Even so, I won’t stick around for long. Just in case. I’ll look for something to wear, find a weapon, and leave. I need to get into the city before nightfall. I don’t want to be out walking the roads when it’s dark.
The sitting room is furnished with dust and patches of green damp. But this was once a fine house: a red marble fireplace faces the double doors; a grand piano nestles in the corner; at the far end of the room hangs a huge, cracked entertainment screen.
I leave the sitting room and move down to the kitchen, which has been ransacked. The back windows are smashed and the garden strewn with rotten furniture—chairs and a table, an ornate headboard, a broken high chair lying on its side. During The Switch people went crazy; with no hope they took to destroying things, anything they could find. I’m surprised the piano is in one piece.
The floor of the kitchen is a mess of broken dishes and glasses. I sift through the debris with my feet in search of a knife. The one I find is completely rusted and sticky with grime, but the blade is long, about twelve inches, and still quite sharp. I keep it in my hand as I walk back along the hallway and up the creaking stairs to the bedrooms. When I get to the landing I pause. Do I hear something? The house is so still, any noise at all startles me. “The dead can’t hurt me,” I say aloud.
The carpets upstairs are moldy, too, and even mossy in places. I continue along the landing, avoiding the trickles of rain coming through the ceiling, and push open the door to a small pink bedroom, the walls plastered with pictures of unicorns and fairies. I move to the door opposite, which must have been the parents’ room. The roof in here is undamaged and so is most of the furniture. I place the knife on a large dresser and open one of the drawers. There are piles of clothes in the drawer—thick sweaters and dry socks. Quickly I choose a few items, strip down to my underwear, which is damp but bearable, and change into the clothes I’ve found.
I go to the wardrobe because I still need a waterproof jacket. The wardrobe is heavy with clothes—all kinds of sparkling dresses and sharp suits and shelves of pointy shoes and belts and hats. The double bed is unmade, as though the couple who shared the room jumped up and rushed off to work, and for a moment I wonder when they’ll be home again, and if they’ll be upset when they catch me pillaging. This is senseless: even if they survived The Switch, they’d be old and withered by now. I can’t find a waterproof jacket, so I grab a black cap and heavy duffel coat instead. Then I pick up the knife from the dresser and make my way back to the hallway, passing by the bathroom, which, even through the facemask, I can smell is disgusting, like the toilet was used a hundred times and never flushed. I have everything I need, and I should leave, but curiosity makes me check the last door in the hallway, which is slightly ajar.
This room is dark because the curtains are drawn and a draft blows the door shut as I step inside.
I wait for my eyes to adjust, holding the knife out in front of me just in case. There is a low gurgling noise in the room, like water trickling through a pipe. The roof must be leaking in here, too. I see a mound of clothes in the corner of the room and not much else except a few boxes and piles of dishes here and there. I’m about to leave when, slowly, the pile of clothes begins to move toward the door, toward me. I gasp. It’s an old drifter with long, matted hair. She can’t move too quickly because she is attached to something—a large, cumbersome box, a solar respirator, which she is dragging behind her.
“If you come any nearer I’ll use this,” I say, wielding the knife. I turn to flee and stumble in the gloom.
“No need to be afraid of lil’ ol’ me, treasure,” she rasps. “Let me touch your face. Let me get near to you now.” When I turn around she is still sliding toward me, gurgling and huffing.
I can smell her—a sweet dirt, like candied urine. How many years has she been in this house? It’s possible she’s a hundred years old. She looks like she must be. She looks like she is already decaying and she isn’t even dead yet. I feel my stomach start to heave.
“Get away from me!” I yell, holding out the blade and backing myself into the corner. The woman stops and in a moment of surprising vigor, throws off the layers of blankets. She is wearing a light nightdress thin enough to reveal her scraggy, withered frame.
I don’t want her to touch me. I flatten myself against the wall hoping it will swallow me up.
“Ain’t no need to be scared,” she croaks, shuffling across the moldy carpet. “Maude Blue wants to take a gander, that’s all.”
“Who’s Maude?” I manage.
“Who’s Maude? Ain’t I got no reputation?” She coughs, brings up something, and spits it onto the carpet. My stomach turns again.
“Naughty Maude Blue,” she shrieks. Maybe she managed to escape from the pod’s Mental Sanitation Unit and is foraging in deserted kitchens to keep herself alive.
“Let me out. I won’t tell anyone I saw you,” I say.
“I know you won’t,” she chortles. I have never seen a breathing apparatus like the one she’s attached to, though I’ve heard of them. It looks like a small refrigerator.
“I’m leaving,” I say, groping for the door handle. All I feel is damp wallpaper.
“Don’t leave me,” she whines. When she is close enough that I can see the grime in her few remaining teeth, she strokes my arm. I scream and swing my knife. “She’s a wild one, all right,” she wheezes, and laughs again before lunging at me. With one hand she tries to rip the mask from my face and with the other begins unbuckling my tank from the belt. I kick and push her away.
“Think you’ll hurt Maude Blue and get away with it?” she shrieks, and charges at me again. I duck as her hands reach for my throat and run to the other side of the room. This is stupid. Now I’m even farther from the door. “I’m gettin’ outta this house. Gimme your portable air,” she crows.
“Get away, you witch! Get away!” I scream.
“Get away,” she mimics. “Get away.” She laughs. I swing again as she comes toward me, but this time, as she shoves me the knife slips from my fingers, and she snatches it up from the carpet. She slices the air with the blade, so I protect my head with my hands, but as I do the rusty knife slices right down my arm. I’m too shocked to feel any pain and simply hold the gash with my hand and watch as blood seeps between my fingers. As it drips onto the carpet, Maude Blue bends down and dips her finger in it.
“How fragile we are,” she says. She looks up with her narrow eyes. She holds the knife in front of my face.
I have to get out of this room, even if it means throwing myself from the window, but Maude Blue seems to have other ideas. She holds the knife to my throat and removes my airtank. I close my eyes as she unfastens my facemask. “I’m sorry, treasure,” she whispers, running a bony, dry finger from my forehead down to my chin. I try to breathe, but unlike the Resistance members who live at The Grove, I’m not ready to cope with such limited oxygen. In an instant, I feel nauseous.
Maude pulls off her own breathing apparatus and slips mine over her mouth and nose. She drops the knife, but I don’t think I can even stand up much longer. I lean against the wall and slide down onto the dank carpet.
“It’ll expire in a day or two,” I croak. Maude Blue looks at my tank and strokes it. She crawls over to me and attaches her old mask to my face. I should be glad of this, but the smell is so foul I don’t know if I can bear it. I’m probably losing so much blood I’ll die anyway.
I wonder how it happened to Abel. I wonder whether he thought of me at the end, whether he blamed me. He had e
very right to.
Then I hear a noise out on the landing. Does Maude have backup, a smelly old lover who has been out prowling and is now back to finish me off? She jumps up and grabs the knife again, so I know she’s not expecting anyone. My next thought is Breathe; they must have followed me. Either way I’m doomed. But then Bea bursts into the room swinging a knife. Quinn too, and he’s also brandishing something. It appears to be a small mallet that he is whirling above his head. He is so serious, so tall and strong, and the weapon is so inadequate, that even in my condition, I have an urge to giggle.
“Get away from her,” Quinn hollers.
“She has a knife,” I warn them.
“We have a knife, too. And there are two of us,” Bea says. “Three,” she adds, looking at me.
Maude frantically waves the knife at Bea and Quinn. “Come get me, kids!” she screeches.
“You grab her arm!” Bea tells Quinn.
It doesn’t take much for the three of us to grab Maude, take the knife from her, and retrieve my tank. Maude hurriedly reclaims her own stinking mask and slinks into a corner of the room, muttering to herself.
Quinn stuffs the hammer into a pocket of his backpack and Bea hands her knife to him before rushing over to examine my arm. “Did you follow me?” I ask, and it comes out more accusingly than I want it to.
“We’ll need to clean that and wrap it,” she says. She stands and opens the curtains to let the light in, then digs through her backpack and pulls out an antiseptic spray and bandage. Quinn moves to guard Maude.
“You came prepared,” I say as Bea pushes back my sleeve and starts to clean and dress my injury.
“We’ve been planning this trip for a few days. We weren’t on the run.” I don’t know whether she’s admonishing me or being kind.
“What do you want to do with her?” Quinn asks, pointing at Maude. I don’t have any idea what to do with her; I haven’t been trained for this, but common sense tells me we should just leave her here.
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