“No,” I begged.
She placed a finger to her lips, then turned and went outside.
She left the building and the guards called for her to return. She was distracting them.
I bolted from the lobby, out the doors, hugging the wall.
“Get back in there. Your shift’s not up,” I heard the guard call to her.
I whispered, “thank-you.” Did she know she’d saved my life? I ran to the side of a neighboring building. There were no guards on this one. I hugged the walls, staying in the shadows. A few blocks away I stopped hiding. I scanned the remains of buildings for anywhere that might offer safety. I had no idea how I was going to find Jonah and the others. I didn’t know in what direction they’d been taken. The thought threatened to overwhelm me. I pushed it from my mind. I had to focus on staying alive, and I wouldn’t be able to do that on the streets. I had to find shelter.
A few blocks from Trent’s apartment, I came to another neighborhood where the houses were not burned. I stood in the shadows, watching. There was no movement, no life in any of them. I crouched low to the ground, making my way up the steps to test the locks. On my fifth attempt I found a door unlocked. I lifted my shirt and took the pistol from my waist.
I opened the door and went inside, clicking the lock shut behind me. Moonlight shone through the windows. The house was narrow and deep. I checked every downstairs room. Someone had been here since the light. The rooms were void of most furniture. Likely burned for firewood. I crept upstairs, my heart racing with every step. Would I find a dead body? Or worse, a live one?
My search ended. I was alone. I went downstairs to what had once been the family room, where a couch and a chair remained. Exhaustion swept over me and I slumped onto the couch. From this angle, I could see out the small windows, but couldn’t be seen from the street. My head ached, my mind was dizzy. I thought of Jonah. I wanted to go to him, but knew my brain was about to go dark. I eased my head down but still the pain shot through me. I winced and adjusted my head against my folded arm. I held the pistol in my right hand. I prayed I would wake, that the concussion would not take my life.
Sleep overtook me. The dreams were broken and violent. Jonah stood on one side of a great ravine and I on the other. Between us lava erupted in angry bursts. Every attempt I made toward him resulted in the burning of my flesh.
Twenty-Five
I jerked back, searching for the gun that was no longer in my hand. The man across from me held it up. I sat up, my head throbbing, and pushed as far back into the couch as I could. I tried to put as much distance between us as possible, as if a few inches would matter.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The morning sun shining through the windows illuminated the mud that encrusted the dark, matted strands of his hair and beard. His eyes matched the darkness of his hair and skin, but they were unlike other eyes I’d seen within dirt-encrusted faces. They were alert and burned with purpose; they were terrifying.
“Bria,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I have no plans to,” he said, “but these are uncertain times, so you never know. Why are you in my house?” His arms rested on the arms of the upholstered chair he sat in, his right hand on Trent’s gun.
“Shelter, I needed shelter,” I said.
“Why?”
“I was afraid to be on the street.”
“I meant, why were you out in the middle of the night?” The mud on his beard was moving up and down as he spoke.
“I ran from someone,” I said.
“Bria, let me be more clear. Your life depends on your answers. Tell me why you are here, in this city, and in this house. If you leave out information or if I believe you are leaving out information, then the odds of me killing you go up. Understand?”
I nodded, and disclosed every detail of my life since arriving in the city. I told of seeing Trent, of his lies, of my escape. I told of my friends who were captured and how I had to find them. He listened. At times, his eyes changed as if he understood something or knew something. But he didn’t speak, and I didn’t ask what his looks meant. When I finished, he stood and walked toward me.
“Turn your head,” he said, standing above me.
I bit my lip and did what he said. He touched my hair, parting it so he could see the gash in my scalp.
“Did you clean this wound?” he asked, stepping back.
“Just with water.”
“Come with me,” he said.
“No, I need to find my friends. I have to get to them before Trent does.” I bent to pick up my pack and felt dizzy.
“If you want to die, go out in the middle of the day. If you don’t, wait till tonight,” he said, walking from the room.
I turned, looking at the door. A gunshot rang somewhere in the distance.
“Where did that come from?” I asked, unable to keep the terror from my voice.
“Not the confinement camp, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man said from halfway up the stairs.
He knew where they held people. I grabbed my bag and followed him up the stairs.
We walked through what I was sure was the master bedroom, into the bathroom. Daylight began to shine through the frosted window in the shower. He reached under the sink and pulled out rubbing alcohol and two cotton balls.
“Lean over the sink,” he said.
I did as he instructed. He soaked a cotton ball in the alcohol and placed it against my scalp. The burning invaded every part of my head and body. My knees weakened. My fingers dug into the underside of the counter. I bit my lip harder than I meant to and tasted the acrid iron of the blood dripping into my mouth. The burning continued. There was no water to wash it away.
“It will stop in a minute or two,” he said, screwing the cap on the bottle.
Tears filled my eyes.
“Your hair is stuck in the wound. You need to pull it out.”
“Me?” I said, my voice weak, my head hurting, my knees on the verge of failing.
I watched the man in the mirror. He stood, looking at the back of my head.
“You should cut your hair.”
I thought of Trent before all this happened and how much he liked me to have long hair. I thought of him now, of how he used my long braid to pull me back and control me.
“Yes, I should,” I said, leaning on the counter. “But I don’t think I can right now.”
My reflection in the mirror was pale. I’d lost a lot of blood. The pain in my head seemed to never stop.
As he stood close to me I could see beneath the knotted hair was a man no older than thirty. He looked at me and frowned.
“I will do it for you, but it won’t look good,” he said, his tone gruff yet somehow kind.
I looked into his eyes. The emotion didn’t change. He wasn’t lying. He would not hurt me. My body calmed.
“Given that my current hairstyle is defined by clumps of dried blood, I don’t think it can get much worse,” I said, looking in the mirror at the man who stood behind me.
He allowed a faint smile to cross his lips as he reached for a pair of silver scissors that stood in a glass container on the vanity.
“How short do you want it?”
“As short as you can get it without cutting me,” I said.
Long blonde hair fell into the sink. As he worked his way around the back of my head, the blonde pile disappeared, covered by red and brown hair. In the mirror I saw myself changing. The person I once was, was gone. In every way. No longer was I the girl who allowed herself to be abused, who saw herself as deserving of nothing more than Trent offered. That person had been fading since the light, and as the last strands of hair fell, so too did the last remains of who I’d once been. I wasn’t sure who I was, but I knew who I wasn’t.
I also knew now, more than ever, that God was part of me. He’d given me the answer. He’d saved me from Trent. I didn’t understand the death and destruction around me, but
I accepted that God existed and if I accepted that, I also accepted that he made us and gave us the ability to choose him or not. To choose good or not. If he allowed the good, then he had to allow the bad; otherwise, he would be limiting us. And if he limited us, how could we ever fully love him? Which seemed to be the whole point.
When the man was done he stepped back, appraising his work.
“That should probably be the last time I cut hair.” A look of concern crossed his face as he placed the scissors back in the glass container.
I looked in the mirror. The front of my hair was just long enough to tuck behind my ears. The rest of it was shorter than Jonah’s, but with a jagged unevenness that reminded me of when I cut my doll’s hair as a child.
“Thank you,” I said.
The man offered me a faint smile and left the room.
I turned to see as much of the back of my head as I could. A gash about the width of my finger crossed my skull. He’d trimmed the hair but not pulled it out of the scab that was forming. My fingers shook as I eased a hair from the wound. The pain seared through my head. I dropped the bloodied hair in the sink. The rest could stay where they were. Perhaps over time they would fall from the wound.
I pulled as much hair as I could from the sink and placed it into a trash can near the toilet. I left the room and went downstairs. The rooms that were fairly dark before were now light. I could see the artwork and pictures on the walls. Quinn would’ve loved all the colors. The pictures were mostly of a man, a woman, and a boy at various ages, in various combinations. The woman stood with the boy in front of a preschool. There was a picture of him later in a small white cap and gown. A picture of the boy at a large desk with the nameplate, Dr. Oliver. The boy grew and stood with the man, a soccer trophy in hand. Then the boy, not much of a boy anymore in his cap and gown, the man and woman at his sides. Another picture of him, a little older, with another cap and gown. Then the boy, now a man by himself in front of the American flag, wearing a uniform. Was this the person who cut my hair? No sign of that clean, short-haired man seemed to remain beneath the mask of dirt and long hair.
“So this is your house?” I asked when I found him in the kitchen.
“My parents’,” he said.
“Where are they?”
“Dead,” he answered, his voice void of emotion.
I felt a surge of pain. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Most people are.” His voice sounded defeated.
“That doesn’t make it any easier on those who are living,” I said, thinking of my mom.
He turned to see my eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”
“How did they die?” I asked, my voice soft.
He exhaled. “My mom got strep throat. My dad got shot on our way back with the medicine. He died the next day. She died the next week.” His gaze drifted past the small kitchen window, where I saw two small wooden crosses at the end of a mound of earth.
“How long ago?” I heard the strangeness in my voice. As if I was looking at death in front of me. I knew from the mounds it hadn’t been long.
“A week for my mom, two for my dad,” he said, his dark eyes turning red. I felt the exhaustion and the sadness as he looked down at me and then away again.
I heard him place the gun on the table as he left the room. I stood, unmoving, staring at his parents’ graves.
I turned. Trent’s gun lay on the small wooden table that was pushed against the wall of the tiny kitchen. The table was surrounded on three sides with dark wooden chairs. I slipped the gun back against the skin of my waist and left the room to find the man.
He sat in the same chair he’d been sitting in when I woke up. I returned to the couch across from him. The spot where my head had been was stained red. I thought for a moment that I should apologize for the stain but then knew things like stained couch cushions no longer mattered. I set my bag at my feet.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Haz.”
“Haz?”
“It’s a family name. Short for Hazard.”
“I like it.”
“Me too.” He leaned his dirt-encrusted hair against the green silk upholstered chair.
My legs bounced as I tried to think of what to say next. All I could think of was Jonah and my friends, but I knew it was wrong to ask about them when I could see the loss on Haz’s face.
Time passed in silence. I stopped my bouncing legs.
“Ask what you want to ask,” Haz said.
I was grateful for the permission to focus on the living rather than the dead. “You said that shot didn’t come from the confinement camp. Do you know where the camp is?”
Haz lifted his head from the chair. “I do.”
“Can you tell me where?” I said, forcing my tone to be steady.
“I can, but what are you going to do when you get there?” he asked, his black eyes staring at me.
I bit my lip. “I’m not sure. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
“You know, your head is split open. Now isn’t really the best time for you to lead a prison break.”
“If he gets to them first, they’ll die,” I said, my body trembling at the words.
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll help you, but not till dark.”
“Why?” I asked, cocking my head.
“Why what?”
“Why would you help me. You don’t know me. You don’t know my friends. So why help me?”
He leaned back in the chair and stared at the mostly drawn drapes. A bit of light gleamed in, causing him to squint.
He turned to face me, the beam of light moving to the side of his face. “Because I know Trent.”
Twenty-Six
My heart raced as I held the gun with both hands, pointing it at his head. “How? How do you know him?” I said, my voice and hands shaking.
Haz looked past the gun, into my eyes. “He’s the one who shot my father.” His voice was calm in a surreal sort of way.
I lowered the gun, almost dropping it into my lap as my arms suddenly felt too heavy to lift. The weight of life, of my choices pushing against me, made it hard to breathe. I stared at Haz, then at the wall behind him. A small painting hung behind his head: a girl laughing, kicking a ball on the sand, waves crashing serenely behind her. Did anyone have such a life? It seemed impossible to be that carefree, that happy, that innocent. I shook my head. No. That life never existed, especially not for me.
This is my fault … the thought echoed in my mind. Why didn’t I end things with Trent after the first time he hit me? Why had I believed I was so unworthy? He came here because of me and gained power he never should’ve had, in a world where there was no one to stop him. Here he could cause hurt and pain like never before. He already had.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, forcing myself to look at the man whose parents died because of me.
“You don’t control him,” Haz said, his arms resting on the chair.
“No, I’ve never controlled him, but he’s here because of me,” I said, feeling the weight of those words.
“Did you ask him to come?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you make him the murderer he is?”
I shook my head.
“Then don’t take responsibility for his actions. They are his and his alone.”
“I wish I could believe you,” I said, staring at the dirt on his face and hair. An image of the mound of earth where his parents lay flashed through my mind. He still wore their death on him—encased by the dirt from their graves.
“It’s your choice to believe or not believe, to allow the past to control you or not control you. Just as Trent is responsible for his actions, you’re responsible for yours. If you choose to take on the guilt of all he’s done, then you will. But my guess is you being controlled by your past is what led you to him in the first place.”
The truth of his words surprised me. “How did you know?”
“I can’t count the numbe
r of times I went out on a domestic violence call where it was the same woman being beat up by a different guy. I could and did arrest him, but I knew he’d either be back hitting her or he’d find someone new to hit, and she’d find some new guy who promised to be different from the last, only to be the exact same. At first I got angry, really angry at her, at him, at the situation. Then I realized she was stuck and I guess he was too. If they didn’t let go of the past and find some way to move forward, they’d just do it all again.”
We sat in silence as I replayed his words in my head.
“You’re a police officer?” It was the easiest of all the questions I wanted to ask.
“Was … am. I’m not sure anymore,” he said, leaning his head back and exhaling a loud sigh.
“What do you mean?”
“A police officer’s job is to enforce the law. There were hard parts of the job, so many hard parts. But I knew my job and I believed in what I was doing. I believed in the laws, I believed in the system—even when it was far from perfect. So I did my job and I did it well. But now?” He stood in anger. “Now, I don’t believe any of it.”
“Because of your parents?” I asked, knowing the pain death brought.
“Because laws are being rewritten on a whim to serve those in power. To create their vision of what the United States should look like. My parents died because of that.” He inhaled as if to calm the surging emotion. “The country I loved, the city I dedicated my life to protect … are gone, and they’re not coming back.”
He went to the window and watched the street, standing in the shadows of what had once been his parents’ family room.
“Why? Why is it like this?” I asked, turning so I could see him.
“I suppose this is how the world looks as it’s ending,” he said, staring blankly.
“Is it ending?”
“It seems to be, doesn’t it?” he said, leaning against the wall, still gazing out the window.
“What happened? What was the light in the sky?” I asked.
“You don’t know?” He didn’t bother hiding the surprise in his voice.
Through the Ashes (The Light Book 2) Page 14