I consider my own question. Am I supposed to make decisions? Or should I wait until I know God has told me something? Have I ever known?
No. So then how do I find out God’s plan for me?
I log this question into my memory. I’ll ask the leader of Ivanhoe. The man with answers.
We drink a lot of water to combat the heat. I request several stops to maintain stamina, growing self-conscious. Jude and Willow never seem to need to stop. Do they expect me to keep up with their pace?
Willow weaves between sagebrush, avoiding stepping on large bushes or flowers. It looks exhausting, like she’s walking twice as much as she has to. Still, she has more energy than I do.
Why can’t my legs keep going like theirs? Why do I crave the moment we stop to sleep and they never seem to desire rest? I feel subliminal pressure from both of them to have endless endurance.
God, this is Your plan, right? My conviction when standing among the tombstones is nothing more than a memory now. I have to believe it was from You. You’re still guiding me, right? Or was that impulse? Is Jude right?
My NAB sends a muted pop from my pocket. I drop behind Willow to read the new message and walk without drawing Jude’s attention.
~Good noon, Miss Blackwater.
I fight a grin. Hawke.
~ I did invest in your X-book. Though you were forced across the Wall against your will, great things are still happening in your life. You are brave to share them. I dare to hope your story might cause some change in the processing of Radicals here in the East, in the Low Cities.
I reread this first paragraph. He thinks great things are happening in my life? Like what, my survival? Nothing I’ve done so far would constitute as great in my mind . . . except maybe helping Ash give birth. But Hawke thinks I’m brave. The corners of my eyes smart.
His sentence about changing the processing of Radicals strikes a chord in my memory. Jude said something similar. They both believe I can do it—they believe in me. What if I let them down?
I take a deep breath. Hawke’s reply continues and I relish the long message.
~Your brother, Reid, is safe for now. When your biography revealed the secret of your Clock, Reid was placed on house arrest with your parents until the end of the Clock. And no, your messages do not bother me. Much of your hardship I consider my fault for not stepping forward and standing by the correct laws of Enforcing. I’m here for you. Tally ho.
My heart sinks. So guilt drives his messages. Even his compliment of my bravery seems tainted now. His “Tally ho” at the end has a note of finality to it. It reminds me of Jude’s harshness. I don’t respond.
Skelley Chase hasn’t sent a reply, so I reach back and slide the NAB into the opened flap of my pack. It’s harder to move my feet forward when I want to sit on a stone and let my heart fall out.
The only change in scenery over the course of several days is when we hit a wide cracked black road, winding into the distance as far as I can squint. Grass and weeds crawl through the cracks and painted lines fade from its weathered stone skin.
“Blacktop,” Jude says. “Or asphalt. Highway. Freeway. Pavement. It’s what people drove cars on when they ran on tires.”
He talks as if it’s old-fashioned, but I’ve never seen a road so smooth. “The Enforcers in Unity Village still drive cars on tires. I rode in one.”
“Really? Strange.”
“Low City, remember?”
We walk on the blacktop a few hours, but it increases the heat. We leave it behind to veer straighter north. Headstones and crosses still outnumber the sagebrush, hills continue to roll, and the sky is cloudless and full of heat. Dirt, sweat, and grime waft from my skin. I ache for a bath and position myself downwind from Jude and Willow, though they don’t smell any better.
Willow kills rabbits with her sling. When we stop for the night, she cleans them, Jude builds a fire, and we eat them. Every day she kills at least two more. For the first time, their overpopulating habits are in our favor, though I grow tired of their meat. We use a couple skins to replace my torn, muddy socks and fill up our water pouches at a small stream. Willow inspects the wood Jude uses for the fires and the land is deprived of even more tumbleweeds.
On what seems the hottest day during my time in the West, we crest a hill and find a gentle flowing river below. It’s wide and smooth and the banks are soft. I drop my pack and wait to see if Jude and Willow run in so I can follow suit. Jude slips off his boots and rests his feet over the bank. Willow wades in. I join her, clothes and all. She lifts cool water to her burns and I scrub the dirt off what skin I can decently expose.
We refill our water pouches and return to the bank. Jude holds out his good hand when I approach. He’s on his feet. I don’t respond fast enough, so he takes my hand and steps into the water. He starts humming an upbeat tune, inserting, “Da da dums” and “Oom pa pa, oom pa pas.” He twirls me.
I can almost imagine the music playing through his mind. It’s difficult to spin in knee-deep water on slippery stones, but Jude’s hand is firm.
I laugh.
The dance doesn’t last long, but each second siphons off a little despair. He takes his injured arm out of the sling and ends with a dip. His arm convulses and almost drops me. With a grunt, he lifts me and helps me onto the bank, favoring his wounded arm. I wring out my hair, but let my clothes drip dry. Refreshed. My body longs to sit here and let the breeze cool my damp skin.
Jude sits beside me and leans back on one elbow. Willow dunks herself in the water. I eye him with a fluttering stomach.
He danced with me. Why did he want to dance with me? Did I look foolish? The show of affection was soothing. Perhaps Jude will say something about dancing with me. Perhaps I should say something.
“Don’t go to Ivanhoe.”
I glance at him sharply. Our dancing fun disappears from my mind like a dried puddle on a hot day. I look at my lap. “Where would you have me go, Jude?”
He shrugs. “Let’s find somewhere new.”
Let’s? As in us? He still wants to travel with me. He doesn’t want to leave me behind, but he doesn’t want to travel where I’m called. “Ivanhoe is new to me. What don’t you like about it?”
He is silent for a moment, staring hard at the river. “I’ve never actually been there, but I know the way. I’ve seen it. I don’t think we should go to the largest city in the West and bed down. He . . . would expect us to go there.”
“The shooter won’t find us in Ivanhoe.” I hoped the topic would come up again. Jude’s been hit with more than a bullet—he’s infused with fear and not admitting it. I remember his terror in the Dregs. His shaking. His entire persona of strength shattered. “It’s the largest city in the West, you said so yourself—he’d be well pressed to spot us. We’d be in more danger in a smaller town.”
Jude helps Willow out of the water then lifts my pack onto his back. He tromps up river. I scramble to catch up with him.
“He’d expect us to go there, Parvin.” He hoists my pack higher. “It’s easy to hunt someone who doesn’t belong. We can’t blend in. We should keep moving.”
“For how long?” I ask, in a smaller voice and gesture to my pack. “ You don’t have to carry that for me, by the way.” He makes no move to take it off and I’m secretly thankful. “Why would the shooter hunt you? He left us in the Dregs. Maybe he thinks you’re dead.”
“He knows I’m not dead.”
“Then why did he let us survive?”
“I don’t know.” He answers too fast, like he’s worried and his response is to appease my curiosity.
I lay my hand on Jude’s arm. “Who is that man who shot you?”
The scuff of Jude’s boots on the dusty ground takes over the conversation. My hand slides back to my side. His eyes stare at a memory, vacant yet focused. After a long minute I whisper, “Jude?”
“I’m thinking,” he barks.
I will myself to be patient. Behind me, the swish of Willow’s sling is followed by a scurry and thunk. Another rabbit down. She ties it to her belt by its hind legs to be skinned and cleaned tonight. My stomach roils. Mother’s banana bread feels like a year ago.
“He’s an assassin,” Jude says at last. “He’s sent from the East by the Citizen Welfare Development Council.”
“The CWDC?”
“Yes, also called the Council. It pairs with the government to develop security and well-being for USE citizens.”
“I know what it is. But they’re supposed to be on our side—the citizen’s side. Why would they hunt you?”
“Because I have information they want.” He looks at his feet. “I was an inventor. I created something they wanted and decided not to give it to them.”
“What did you invent?”
He pauses for a long time. Is he annoyed? Will he even answer? “You can’t know.” Before I can ask why not he cuts me off with a single word. “Yet.”
Yet.
He’s asking for patience. Maybe this is hard for him—a vulnerable topic. Can I be patient? I look up at him as he stares at the dry sagebrush-covered plains and find myself nodding.
Questions swarm in my mind like hornets. Jude said the assassin didn’t kill him on purpose, so why did he shoot Jude? Why is Jude still afraid of the assassin? One clear thought makes its way through the swarm: The USE is much more involved with this side of the Wall than our government lets on.
“I guess it’s okay to go to Ivanhoe, as long as we’re careful when we enter and leave. We will need food and supplies soon anyway. But let’s not stay too long.”
“Okay.” I try not to sound too excited. “Just long enough to find the Newtons.”
Jude digs his hand into his pocket. “Go see how Willow is doing with her rabbits.”
With a deep breath through my nose, I obey. Jude must need a moment to himself. What must it feel like being hunted?
I bite my lip, thinking of my single journal entry to Skelley Chase about Jude and me in the Dregs. I wish I could take it back. I wish I’d kept Jude’s name out of the whole thing—or used a fake name.
I pull my NAB from my skirt. Maybe it’s not too late. Perhaps Skelley Chase hasn’t published that journal entry yet. I balance the thin booklet on my stub and click Skelley Chase’s pulsing message bubble.
~Here’s your X-book. Keep up on that journal, you’re leaving me dry. -SC
My X-book. I tap the small link. A stunning cover with a dogwood tree the color of blood holds the title starting to define my life.
A Time to Die
By Skelley Chase
I squirm. Shouldn’t my name be on the cover? I squint closer, seeing if it’s in finer print, but a shout from Jude startles me.
“Writing in your journal?” He yells much louder than needed to reach my ears.
“No, I’m—” I look up and my voice seizes.
He’s stopped walking and faces me, unmoving. His eyes are wild and his lips are pressed into a tense line. “You never said those entries are broadcasted to the entire nation!”
I halt, too, and attempt to clear my throat. Willow stands beside me, looking at Jude with wide eyes. He’s scaring her. He’s scaring me.
Jude takes three long strides and hits my NAB from my hand. “Stupid!”
I stumble backward, now truly afraid.
“You led the assassin to us. Those journal entries told him where we were. Your selfish desire for the world to know your name caused this.” He jerks a finger at his shot arm.
My face grows hot. I can’t bring myself to apologize. His hands clench and I could swear the snake on his arm silently hisses at me. Jude’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed. He raises a fist. I tense, but he turns away and grabs two handfuls of his own hair, allowing the sling to slip off his shoulder.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he grinds through gritted teeth.
“If you would have told me—” I jerk back when he spins around.
“You can’t blame your idiocy on me.” Saliva gathers at the corners of his mouth. “You lack the ability to think of others before your own impulse.”
His words are like a whip. My restraint snaps. I shove him.
My stump crumples against his chest and he barely sways. What I don’t expect is for him to shove me back. His hands hit me like two impenetrable rams, striking my shoulders with the force of a cannonball. I fall backward and my knees buckle against a gravestone. I land hard, stiff sagebrush branches piercing my skin. The impact knocks my breath out in a painful cry. My stub screams for attention, shooting zings like newly sewn sutures.
“I’m not taking you to Ivanhoe. Not if you’re announcing it to the world.”
Everything in me wants to curl up and cry. Where is compassion? Where is grace?
Willow kneels by me, crying. “Is your arm hurt?”
I shake my head and glare after Jude.
I hate him.
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Campfire is hell contained in a pit of stones. We add wood. Willow cooks the rabbits. Hell-smoked rabbits. I decline dinner. My appetite still lies behind the headstone over which Jude pushed me.
No one has spoken since his outburst, but all of us have thought. Anger and hurt war within me. Each procures a different desire—one makes me want to scream at Jude and the other makes me want to cry until he comforts. But he won’t comfort.
The sound of him gnawing on rabbit bones slides down my nerves like a potato peeler. I hate him. I hate him. I press the button on my sentra over and over, shoving the same emotigraph back in every time it’s expelled. I care not about recording my emotions, but the prick feels good, like I’m releasing my anger.
“Parvin, I’m sorry.”
At Jude’s quiet words I slide my narrow glare from the flames to his face. Sorry? That’s not good enough. He doesn’t look at me. I wait. He gives no further elaboration—no why behind the sorry. Is he sorry I’m with him? Sorry he shoved me? Sorry he got angry?
He looks up. “Did you hear me?”
My glare diminishes. “Yes.” Then, when the awkward pause of expectation grows too weighty, I say, “Thanks.”
He doesn’t say “Welks.” Instead, he prods the fire. “We’d better rest.” He stretches himself out on the ground.
Rest for what? He said he’s not taking me to Ivanhoe. I watch him for several minutes. He lies on his back with his good arm over his eyes and his foot tapping to an imaginary beat. It looks like a happy one.
My internal anger reaches a low boil. How can he sleep when we are so divided? How can he leave me alone and listen to his music? How can he feel happy and content? Doesn’t he care about what he did? Doesn’t he care about frightening Willow and me?
Willow won’t look at me. She’s avoided speaking or sitting beside either of us since the argument. What does her albino culture do about arguments? Maybe they don’t argue, they just amputate body parts.
My left arm still throbs from the impact of my fall. A tight squeeze wraps around my nonexistent hand, pulling. Pulling. Why do I feel it? It’s Black holding my wrist again, stretching my arm against my weak struggles; holding it for Alder to sever.
I retrieve my NAB, glancing at Jude as the screen adapts to the darkness. Part of me wants the glow to wake him—to evoke another quarrel. At least the boiling beneath my heart might lessen. What changed between our calm talking and his outburst? How did he discover the assassin was my fault?
Was it my fault?
He doesn’t turn over. As I set the screen to typing, a flashing message across the top of the screen catches my attention.
10% energy, please charge . . . 10% energy, please charge . . .
Charge? I never imagined the NAB would run
out. How do I charge it? I haven’t seen electricity anywhere in the West.
I look at Jude again. He’d have the answer. He must have a NAB of his own—how else would Hawke have contacted him when I needed help? Maybe my emotions will lessen enough by morning that I can ask him for help. It’s doubtful.
The moon rises higher in a clear night sky. I vent my emotions via typing onto the NAB. I don’t know where else to put them. God feels too far away, Skelley Chase is too untrustworthy, and Hawke is friends with Jude. I record my anger in a journal entry. I’m careful to press the save button so it doesn’t send to Skelley Chase.
When I finish, I return the NAB to my pack. The fire consists of embers. I ought to place more wood on it to keep us warm through morning. As I tie the flap back down, a distant low whistle reaches my ears—a sound completely out of place in this graveyard wasteland.
I sit straight with a start, my hand clutching the strap of my pack. Silence stretches and I scan the darkness. There. A flash of electric light miles away. Another deep whistle.
A train.
I leap to my feet, disoriented. A train in the West? Here in this wasteland where we’re scraping for survival? The light flashes over another distant graveyard hill. Closer.
The Independents have trains.
Jude’s foot no longer taps. Willow is curled with a small fur pelt over her skinny body. I need to catch the train, if only for information—to read its name as it passes by, to see if it’s passenger or cargo, to gather another scrap of information.
Willow will be too slow to run with me. I need to go now, before Jude can tell me not to. Before Jude wakes up. They’ll wake in the morning and I can share my new information. Maybe he’ll be proud.
My gaze narrows. Who cares?
I hoist my pack on my back, unsure of what may come in useful and not willing to waste time searching through it right now. Then I run, for all our sakes, but mostly for mine.
The running is freeing—like I’m in charge at last. I’m taking action. I race forward to intersect the train. The whistle sounds again, louder. It’s fast. Much faster than me. It will wake Jude and Willow soon, despite Jude’s brain music.
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