A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  “Didn’t you hear me?” The Dregs are so silent it’s hard to imagine he’s not ignoring me. “I can’t sleep.”

  “I was listening to music.”

  I roll my eyes. “How?”

  “My tune-chip.”

  My sluggish brain runs the word tune-chip through my mental process three times before I ask, “What’s that?”

  “A chip that plays music matching my mood.” He folds his right ear in half. I squint through the shadows beneath his hair and see an undefined black spot in the crease between his ear and his skull.

  Music. I rarely hear music. The county building played music in every room of the building—soft wordless music that doesn’t spread an ounce of inspiration. Boys in school would sometimes carry small pocket music players, but they always wore cordless headphones so I never heard the songs.

  “I can’t hear it.” I wrap my arms around my dripping form. How nice for him that he’s been entertained by melodious art while I’ve listened to mosquitoes nibble my ear hairs.

  “Of course you can’t.” Jude releases his ear. “It’s surgically programmed in my brain. You think I’d force the whole world to hear my mood?”

  The concept is so bizarre I stare at his head for a moment as if I’ll see wiring. Is half his brain made up of electronics? How can music be implanted? “I didn’t know they could do that,” I whisper. What mood would his music reveal at this moment?

  Sunlight accentuates his frown. “I didn’t think about you having to deal with the silence.” He looks past me in his own wave of thought. “Wow. I’d hate that.”

  “Silence? There’s a lot of sound. Wind, the lapping water, bugs and things . . .”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t think when it’s quiet like that.”

  Weird. What must it be like to be so used to hearing music that the sounds of the world are distracting?

  “You still tired?”

  I nod, forcing my drooping eyes to blink instead of close.

  He turns his back to me. “Hop on.”

  “A piggyback ride?” When’s the last time I had one? “Won’t this hurt you?” I climb up with difficulty.

  “You’re not very heavy.” For once I’m thankful for the comment on my size.

  He has a firm hold as the canyon slopes down and my backside dips beneath the water. Wrapping my arms around his chest and resting my head on his shoulder feels acutely intimate, which may be why I’m so calm.

  I drift off, watching the cattails pass by and listening to the sound of his rhythmic breathing.

  Who needs music? I think in a sappy stupor.

  When I wake, it’s dusk. A cricket chirps, awakening the other dusk insects. Jude is still walking, bobbing his head to his tune-chip. He must be in a happy mood. I strain my ear right next to his, but catch no whiff of melody.

  We’re still in deeper water and my legs are numb from the pressure around his waist. Soreness crawls up my spine and my neck pops when I straighten it.

  “I’m so cold,” I croak.

  Jude lowers me into the water so I can stand. “Try walking again. The movement will help.”

  My stomach rumbles with a stab of pain. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  No other speech passes between us. No use thinking about food without a solution. God, please get us out of this canyon, I pray. Must my time be wasted in this place deserted of people? Bring us the hope You showed me during Ash’s labor.

  Thinking of Ash reminds me of my Bible. What if she and Black burn it as heresy? The albinos have no faith in God. But they have to see that their life isn’t how things are supposed to be. How can they not see this? Where does their purpose come from? Do they even feel the pull for more?

  I need more than what they have to offer. Protecting trees while partaking in purposeful mutilation will never fulfill me, even if they hold a unity I’ve longed for within my village. I can’t be part of their purpose because it doesn’t look like purpose at all. I am on a pilgrimage. As Jude said: a quest to something sacred.

  A quest to shalom.

  Thirst drags drying saliva down my throat, but my water pouch is empty. The departure of the sun brings shadows once again, leaving the water with a black sheen. When I can’t see all the cattails, bugs, water-spiders, and slime on the surface, it’s easier to imagine the water being clean. How bad would it be for us to drink it?

  The disgust I had when we first fell in the Dregs isn’t as strong anymore. It takes only an hour of dry mouth and the memory of dehydration with the wolves to scoop a handful of water to my lips.

  I’ve slurped half of it before Jude slaps away my hand. “Don’t drink that!” His voice echoes against the canyon walls.

  “Don’t shout!” My hand stings. “I’m thirsty.”

  “This water isn’t clean.”

  I shake my head. “Would you rather die of dehydration than drink a little dirty water?”

  Jude lets out a huff. “Cities dump their waste and refuse into the Dregs. You could get seriously sick.”

  My mouth seems to shrivel up at the idea of what I might have put into it. I have nothing to say, but I don’t doubt Jude will be drinking from the Dregs by sunrise.

  Morning comes as pleasantly as the raising of a guillotine. Grey clouds grow stronger with the rising of the sun. I’m sick of living and Jude looks like a nauseous clown. His eyes are puffy and the black beneath them is turning to greenish yellow. Around two in the morning, I’d tried dragging him by my pack like he’d done to me, but I lasted an hour before my arm felt like a searing iron. I don’t even know if he slept, but the momentary rest seemed to invigorate him.

  Our hunger takes precedence once the sun shines its muted warmth on our skin between the dark clouds. Jude plucks a locust off a cattail and bites it in half.

  “Eww!” I recoil. I force a swallow to rid my mouth of the imagined crunch of locust.

  “It’s food.” Jude pops the other half in his mouth. The legs are still squirming. “Men of God ate locusts in the Bible.”

  “You can’t listen to bugs, but you can eat to them?” I shudder. “You are strange, Jude-man. Strange.”

  Jude releases a one-beat laugh at my joking tone. I squeeze a green cattail stalk as we push through. “The albinos ate these.” I so hope he doesn’t suggest I eat a locust.

  “I know. They’re delicious with salt and butter. Taste a lot like artichoke.”

  “Do you think we can eat them raw?” If only we could somehow make a fire.

  He responds by snapping a stalk. “If they’re green. Never eat them once they’ve turned brown.”

  I follow his lead and pluck off a cattail head, checking to make sure no grasshoppers are hiding on it. All clear. Without allowing myself to question, I bite into it.

  The center is hard as a rock, so I nibble the green fuzz around it. The texture is stiff and stringy, with little hairs like a peach. Raw, there’s not much taste to them; either that, or I’m distracted by the fact it feels like a miniature animal in my mouth. I still eat three of them.

  “They’re much better cooked,” Jude says after his fourth one.

  “I would assume so.”

  He chuckles and I smile, desperate for an ounce of hope. My ounce turns into an avalanche when I glance up at the brightening edge of the canyon. A person stands on the albino side, a hundred yards away.

  I grip Jude’s arm with a gasp. “Look.”

  The person is tall and scans the Dregs. From this distance, it looks like a man wearing copious amounts of traveling gear. Maybe he has food. And water! He might even have a rope.

  Jude squints. The man spots us and waves.

  “Jude! He can help us.”

  “Hey!” The man jogs up the canyon toward us. His voice is a tiny pinprick of sound, but settles like gold aloe on my heart. He waves aga
in and Jude waves back.

  “Hello!” I shout.

  When he reaches us, he’s panting. “Hey! Jude and Parvin?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim, but Jude steps forward, holding out a hand to silence me.

  “Who are you?” His tone is cool.

  “Willow sent me. A little albino girl. Do you know her?”

  Jude relaxes. “Yes, where is she?”

  “On the other side of the canyon. I saw her a day ago. She asked me to find you. Do you need help?”

  “We need food and water.” My stomach clenches at the thought.

  Jude laughs, relief clear on his voice. “We need rescue. Do you have a rope?”

  The man sets his giant bag on the ground and rummages inside. It’s all black and looks very official. “Here.” He tosses us a silver canister. “To hold you over while I dig out my rope.”

  The canister lands short with a plop and both Jude and I trudge forward to retrieve it. Inside are half a loaf of bread and three small cooked potatoes. What a savior!

  I look back up. “Thank yo—” The words die on my lips as the stranger takes aim with a sleek sniper pistol. Before I can register the explosion from the weapon, Jude is struck by a bullet.

  25

  000.154.04.45.00

  Thump. The impact sends Jude tumbling backward.

  In a state of panic, thought comes to me clearer than a polished window.

  Jude is shot.

  I am next.

  I dive under the water and propel myself toward a clump of cattails, trying to drag Jude with me. Adrenaline steals my breath. These bushes won’t stop a bullet. We’re like cougars trapped in our own den.

  I come above the water for breath, tense and praying, waiting for the bullet to find me. God, please protect us. I know I won’t die, but the placement of this bullet could mean the death of many other things—movement, thinking, consciousness, personality, walking . . .

  Splashing startles me as Jude flails in the water.

  “You’re alive!” I reach for him and he grabs my hand like I’m his only hope. Thank you, God!

  I pull him toward me and glance at the cliffside, terrified of seeing the barrel of the pistol again. But the stranger is gone, and his weapon with him.

  “Time to go,” Jude hisses, yanking me to my feet.

  “Where’s the shooter?” I remain in a crouch. “Is he hiding? Don’t move!”

  Jude pulls me up the canyon anyway. “Come on, Parvin.”

  It’s hard to flee when we’re in a death cage. Bullets could beat us in any race, but, as we run through deep water, none seem up for competition. The air is calm. No gunpowder explodes from the canyon edge.

  “The food!” I slow.

  “No time.”

  But I’m not willing to let it go. We run a few yards before I look behind at the tin still floating, half-filled with water.

  I turn back.

  “No!” But Jude makes no move to stop me.

  I dump the water from the tin, shove the floating potatoes back in, and run with forced movement back to him. Jude’s panic seems to have lessened, but he’s paler than Willow.

  I gasp. Willow. That man said he found her. Did he kill her?

  Blood flows from Jude’s upper right arm. He’s shaking. Once he moves forward again, he stumbles.

  “Stop.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “We need to make sure you’re okay.”

  I lead him to the wall of the canyon, where he leans his back against it and squeezes his eyes tight. Blood blocks me from seeing the severity of the wound. I rinse it with some Dregs water. Jude doesn’t protest. In the brief moment when the blood is thinned with water, I see the hole above the crook of his elbow, interrupting the fluid movement of his snake tattoo.

  “God . . .” He puts his hand over his face. “O God . . .”

  I can tell by Jude’s voice that he’s praying. I keep my own voice calm. “It’ll be okay.”

  He just shakes his head. His shoulders move in small jerks like he’s crying but won’t let me hear.

  An ache threatens to clinch my beating heart. It’s okay, Jude. I’m here.

  I unwind the bandage from around the wolf scratches on my left arm. They’re almost healed now and no longer need covering. I rinse them in the Dregs and squeeze the wad of cloth against my chest to wring it out. Then I wrap his upper arm.

  He groans. “What will I do? He didn’t kill me.”

  “Thank God, then. You’ll heal. I know you will. I’ll get you out of here.” Get him out of here? What am I saying? How will I get him out? I can’t even get myself out.

  His left arm grips my wrist. “Your dagger.” He looks at me with his red-rimmed black eyes. “You have to use it to get the . . . the bullet out.”

  I step back. “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to!” He straightens.

  I stumble away. “No!”

  His ferocity leaves him in a flash and his hand covers his anguished face again. I finish the bandage with trembling fingers, tucking the end into a fold since I can’t tie it. I steel myself to be strong.

  “It’s okay.” I take his hand. “Let’s keep going. God will give us a way out.”

  Funny how, when someone else is cracking, my faith seems to bloom. I know God will get us out because I’m going to live five more months. He also kept Jude from getting shot in the head. We will get out.

  In a brief moment, Jude’s hand slides out of my grasp and his fingers touch the side of my face. I look down, unsure why he’s touching me. His hand moves to my shoulder and pulls me into a tentative hug. He’s trembling.

  The tension flows from my muscles and I release a thick breath. He sighs, too, and then takes my hand again. We push onward with renewed energy and multiplied questions.

  I lead, and we both scan the canyon edges for movement. My heart continues to pump so fast I feel sick, but I’m strong—assigned to protect Jude. I will be strong for us. For him.

  I squint at cracks in the canyon wall, trying to locate a hiding place in case the shooter returns. This worries me most. If he reappears, we are still helpless trapped targets.

  Jude calms after an hour, but I hesitate to ask him the many questions running through my mind. Why did this man shoot Jude and leave? Did he really encounter Willow? If so, did he kill her or just use her information? Is she on his side? Was all of this a conspiracy?

  Jude didn’t seem surprised by the shooter. Why would this man let Jude live if he’d decided to shoot him? “Jude . . . who was that man?”

  He trudges in silence. I look over at him and he just shakes his head.

  “You expected to be killed. Why is someone after you?”

  “No, Parvin,” he says in a choked voice. “I didn’t know. I don’t . . . I need to think a while.”

  I bite my tongue. “Okay.” Storm clouds rumble overhead, sending gusts that shake the cattail stalks. Our coats do little to protect from the increasing chill. Jude clutches his arm and moans every few minutes, making me wish I had white pills to ease his pain.

  The rain starts in small sheets. I know enough about the weather to accept that this will be the most uncomfortable day in the Dregs. If the clouds have built in the morning, they will likely last through the day and night. But I can’t stop the scratchy squeal that comes out of my throat. “Water!”

  Jude and I split the soggy bread and potatoes, hoping the digestion will keep us a little warmer and more energized. Then I hold out the canister to gather rainwater.

  I’m still confused by the provided food. If the shooter intended to kill us, why sacrifice his food? Then again, Jude said the man chose not to kill him.

  For a wild moment, I wonder if the food is poisoned. I swallow hard and turn to Jude. He pops the last bite of his potato into his mouth. I suppress my suspicion. If the fo
od is deadly, it’s too late to get it out of our systems. Besides, no matter what Reid wrote, I hold to the belief that I still have five months.

  The sky darkens so much it looks like evening and the rain grows to painful drops. The canister is full in minutes and we slurp the cool liquid in relief. It coats my throat, soothes my stomach. I can’t get enough.

  But Jude makes me slow down. “You’ll be sick if you drink too much.”

  “Okay.” We fill the canister again and then close it. Jude shoves it in my pack for later.

  Now that we are no longer thirsty, the storm turns into less of a blessing. It’s cold. Hard. Loud. God, is this necessary? Do You see us at all, or do the Dregs keep us from view? Where is Your protection? Calm this rain!

  The storm roars louder and louder, like a rushing river. My arms shake, though whether from cold or concern, I can’t say.

  “Jude . . .” My voice quivers and I reach back for his hand. “The storm is too fierce.”

  “What?”

  I turn so he can hear me better. His hand is pressed against his wound and he’s shaking like a shaved cat in winter. I long more than ever for Ash’s white pills.

  I repeat myself as loud as possible. “The storm is too fierce! Maybe we should stop!” He’s in a lot of pain. We should definitely stop.

  But what good will stopping do? That won’t alleviate the rain or his suffering.

  His lips move, but I hear no response. He’s looking hard into my face and gesturing with his free hand, but I might as well have cotton in my ears.

  Suddenly his hand grips mine, crushing my fingers. I jump and jerk my hand away. He stares past me with dilated eyes. I spin around, expecting to see the shooter on the canyon edge, but instead I have a single second to register an eight-foot wall of water barreling down the canyon.

  I have no time to take a breath. It slams us to the floor like a train. Broken cattail stalks jab my cheek and forehead. My lungs burn as water fingers tear my body in separate directions. Sticks slap me. I tumble.

  Up! Up! Up! My mind screams and I thrash against the torrent. I break the surface and, in my desperation for air, gulp two lungfuls of water. Before I can cough it out, a sweep of water shoves me under, throwing me about like a leaf in a tornado. My chest convulses, wanting to cough and breathe at the same time.