by Anna Oney
Both she and her mother had gorgeous, clear skin. Tempest's light brown hair was braided tightly against her scalp, allowing her flawless features to stick out. Observing her appearance, Emma assumed Tempest was in her late teens, early twenties. She wore a mesh, pink shirt with a black tank top underneath. Her skinny jeans and boots suggested she'd been the queen of style before its importance had been untimely wiped away.
"That dog is scary," Danisha muttered, equally as stylish as her daughter with Gucci sunglasses dangling from her oversize, purple, button-down shirt, and she sported a silver belt. She wore black tight pants with dark-brown boots that reached up to her knees.
Danisha and her daughter reminded Emma of fancy ladies—socialites of the city. Nell, on the other hand, was as plain as they came. A good old-fashioned Dallas Cowboys fan sporting a supportive cap and navy-blue windbreaker.
"My name's Emma," she said, passing the beans to Nell. "Emma Clery."
"Clery?" Nell said. "You related to any of them Clerys down in Harleton?"
"Nope, different set," she said. "Where did y'all come from anyways? That is, if you don't mind me asking."
"Jefferson."
"Jefferson?! That's a long damn way."
"It is, believe you me. We went the back way, through Pine Harbor, and made a couple of friends there."
"Where are they now?"
"They aren't here. Together we passed along the edge of Caddo Lake and spent the night in every abandoned house we came upon. Food was scarce, of course, but we made do."
***
With the stars glimmering through the trees above, Emma's conscience didn't feel as heavy as it had before. At least she had accomplished one goal: to show kindness where it was needed. Glancing toward Oliver and his full belly resting peacefully in his mother's arms, Emma thought, Maybe I'm not damned after all.
Since the boy had fallen asleep, Stella seemed to believe she was purposely being ignored, so she came to rest by Emma instead. Finished with their meals, Danisha and Tempest decided to join Oliver in his slumber at the opposite side of the pine tree that Emma leaned against. Nell, on the other hand, stayed busy staring into the flames.
"You okay?"
"I don't think we're going to make it to Marshall."
"Why are you headed there?"
"To see if it's different. Maybe my parents are still alive. Jefferson didn't last long. People started turning on one another."
"It's like that everywhere, you know," she said, straightening up. "We've always looked for ways to kill each other. This new world has only escalated our troubles into something we can't seem to handle. The hurt's always gonna be there, no matter where you go."
"You think I don't know that? I had to get my family out of there, and why not try for my parents, huh? Why not?"
"You're good people. I know that."
"Being good hasn't gotten us anywhere."
"The person you are got you here today. Every move you make, everything that happens to us, happens for a reason. I was placed in your path just as you were placed in mine. Helping you has helped me," she said, nodding toward his sound-asleep family. "I can help you."
"I can't give you anything. I have nothing," he said, struggling to hold back the tears. "Why would you take on a hopeless case like us?"
"Because you're not, and I know a place where there's food. There's a house where y'all can hole up until I come back to fetch you. But that would mean calling off your big-city trip. Being reunited with your parents, to be honest, probably wouldn't happen anyways."
"That trip was as ill-fated as they come. Grasping at straws was all that was. But you're nice enough. I don't believe you mean to hurt us. If you do, then you deserve an Academy Award."
"The house is about a day's walk from here—a straight shot. It's a two-story, white house with redbrick underpinning. If you're not sure it's the right one, it'll have a screened-in back porch. Look for it on the left-hand side. Entrance to the cellar is in the kitchen, you can't miss it."
"I'm thankful. Thank you. When do you think you'll be coming back?"
"Two days or so, maybe even three. Hoping it won't take me that long, but you never know."
There was something about the rays emanating from the full moon. It turned the green and brown environment into a grayish aqua-blue. The woods were illuminated enough for Emma to cover some ground, and she had the sudden desire to keep moving and rest later. Shifting on the ground, Emma selfishly nudged Stella awake. Shaking off her sleepiness, Stella was on all fours before Emma could call herself ready. As she gathered her things, Nell sat, confused by her actions.
"Did you hear something? Should we be getting ready, too?"
"No, no, I'm gonna head on out."
"Did . . . did I do something to piss you off?"
"Naw. It's so nice and cool this time of night. I betcha tomorrow'll be so hot it'll melt my skin away, and if it rains it'll drown everything out. This way, I can cover a good amount before sunup."
"Be careful out there," he said, offering his hand. "We'll be expecting you in a couple of days."
Smiling back at him, Emma firmly shook his hand. It was then that Emma realized leaving them defenseless, with a long day's walk ahead, might prevent them from making it there safely. Looking into his eyes, Emma stood up and begrudgingly pulled the revolver from her hip. "I trust you," she said, handing over the weapon. "Don't make me regret it."
Practically doe-eyed with thankfulness, he asked, "You sure?"
"I hope it doesn't come to that." She sighed. "But if it does, you have a way to defend yourselves." Slinging the crossbow over her shoulder, she said, "Only three left, so use them wisely."
"Here," he said, digging through his pack. "I know it isn't much." He paused, pulling out a navy-blue Cowboys ski mask. "But take this. It'll help with the bugs. They can drive you nuts."
"Oh, okay," she said, accepting the best of what he could offer. "Thanks."
"I used to wear it at the games when it got cold."
Trash bag in hand and Stella by her side, Emma was sure everything she owned was secure. She remembered leaving out one tiny but important detail that she should have mentioned about Pete's house.
"I hope them gals of yours ain't squeamish," she said, stowing the mask in her pocket.
"Why?"
"When you arrive, don't be surprised to find a dead man in the kitchen."
"Oh, is that so?" He chuckled, raising his brow. "You're kidding, aren't you?" He giggled, slapping his knee. "And just how did this gentleman meet his end?"
Putting an end to his laughter, Emma answered, "I killed him." Backing away, she shrugged, and added, "Self-defense, but I killed the man all the same."
Chapter 32:
Emma
Their long trek through the darkness rendered them exhausted. All Emma could think about was a well-deserved rest. The continuous glances toward her master suggested Stella felt the same.
They walked for a couple more miles until they came upon a great willow tree placed perfectly in the middle of a clearing. The willow was quite beautiful. Its long, low-hanging branches swayed with a much-needed and desired breeze. Every time the wind blew, out of the corner of her eye Emma spotted Stella seeming to savor all she could.
Thankful for the cool night air, they didn't think to make a fire. After settling down for the night, they gazed at the stars flickering through the pines above. Resting her head on Emma's thigh, Stella stared into her master's eyes. Through all of the bullying and teasing, through every disturbance in Emma's life, Stella had been there to console her wounded heart.
As the night grew deeper, so did the bugs. Oddly, Stella seemed not to be bothered by them. But Emma found it impossible to sleep as they collided with her face.
"Damn bugs," she cursed, shooing them away.
Remembering the mask, Emma covered herself with it for protection. Startled by her sudden change of appearance, Stella tilted her head as though she were asking why Emma had don
ned the mask.
"Thanks, Nell." Emma groaned. "You jinxed me."
Stella began moving the handle of the spear tip with her snout, causing it to scrap against her master's thigh. Irritated, Emma took it from her pocket and wrapped it in a spare piece of cloth. Searching for a place her dog wouldn't think to bother, Emma settled on putting it in the side of her boot, and used the pant leg to shield it from sight. That put an end to Stella's nosing around, and the light of the neon moon coaxed Emma into lying beside her dog, and to call it a night.
Balancing on the lowest branch of the willow, Emma strained to see a Native man, who couldn't have been older than seventeen. He was clinging to a smidge of life that remained in him. Below the tree, he clutched at a hole that went through his gut. Blood seeped through his fingers as he prayed, "Please, Lord, help her. Help Ayita . . . my sister."
Emma was confused by the clothes he wore. They were ragged and baggy. The blood-soaked moccasins covering his feet were the only thing he wore that made sense to her.
As the man took his hand from the wound, Emma realized his death was inevitable.
Begging for his family's forgiveness, the Native cried, "Please, Father, Mother, Sister . . . I have failed you all. This . . . is how it should be." He winced. "I should have to. . . have to wander this plane alone."
During his last moments, Emma could sense the Native longed to be blessed with a cool breeze. His clothes were drenched in sweat, but soon the blistering sun would have no effect on him. The ground was covered with fallen leaves that cushioned his aching back. The swaying branches of the willow were kind enough to block the piercing light. Some of the branches were long enough to glide across his broken body.
The shadow of Death towered over him. It didn't take long for Emma to realize it was she who had flushed out his copper skin and replenished it with a pale white. Death was laughing at him; Emma was laughing at him.
She was Death.
Suddenly, Emma was flown from one scene to another. Ayita, her brother, and their captors, a white married couple, were playing host to a man they called Mr. MacClery. They introduced him as a friend, but Emma could sense Ayita's brother believed this man was evil.
MacClery spoke with an Irish accent, had blood-orange-colored hair, and stared at Ayita in a way someone would stare at something they felt they could use—a way in which, Emma was certain, forced the Native to feel overprotective of his sister.
Only a day of hosting and eerie smiles passed when the man of the house approached MacClery, holding Ayita's hand. Pleasantries were definitely over as their captor handed her over to the stranger they had just met. Their captors, who Emma had foolishly believed must have welcomed the siblings in as their part of their family, sold Ayita to clear a debt, but they seemed to pay no attention to the young Native boy who they had let out of their sight.
Just as they began forcing her, kicking and screaming, into the wagon, the Native fetched a hatchet from a stump and reappeared. Lunging at the man, he attempted to stab MacClery in the chest, but before he could inflict any damage, the Irishman snatched him up like he was a twig.
"No! No! Wakiza! My brother!" Ayita screamed from the wagon. "Wakiza! Don't hurt him. Please!"
Holding the Native up by his neck, MacClery reached for his pistol and didn't hesitate to shoot the young man in the gut. After beating him, the man of the house threw Wakiza's body in the back of MacClery's wagon to let MacClery do whatever he pleased with the young man.
Ayita was desperate to comfort her dying brother. MacClery was forced to hold her down as they traveled. Soon she became a nuisance to control, so he kicked Wakiza from the moving wagon. As MacClery struck the horses to spur the wagon into motion, he dissolved the irreplaceable bond between a brother and sister.
The last vision Wakiza had of his sister was of her screaming and reaching out for him.
"Ayita!" He wept. "No! No! Come back!"
Wakiza's grave wasn't far from where he'd been dropped. Spotting the willow from where he lay, he crawled from the road and reached the cover of the massive tree.
"I'll . . . wait . . . here, but only for" —he gasped at the unbearable amount of pain— "I . . . I will find you."
From the branch, Emma watched as he took his last breath. Wakiza's eyes were closed, but only for a moment. When they opened again, his clothes had been stripped from him. Even his beaded moccasins had been stolen, leaving him barefooted. He had been left with only a loincloth to cover him.
Filled with excitement, Emma sensed Wakiza had been given a second chance. Rising from the ground, Wakiza gazed at the tree that sheltered him, but the willow didn't look the same. All of its leaves had fallen, and a light frost surrounded the area. Instead of spring, it was winter. The woods weren't as thick as before, or as full of life.
Searching for an explanation, Wakiza took in his new surroundings and came upon a clearing with a long, rectangular black surface. No trees were grown around the strange river, no nature, nothing but tall grass on either side. Kneeling before it, he placed his hand upon the cool surface and found that it was hard as stone.
Emma woke with the awful feeling of sweat-drenched clothes clinging to her skin and what felt like someone kicking her legs. Examining her thigh, Emma found it was red and sore. Stella was nowhere to be found. After the disturbing dream, her dog's sweet face would have brought immediate comfort.
Unnerved, Emma realized if this was the same tree he had died under, then that meant she'd fallen asleep too close to the road. Hiding behind the willow, Emma peeked around the trunk and stared in the same direction Wakiza sprinted in the dream.
"Shit."
Praying for Stella's white coat to appear, Emma heard footsteps approaching from behind the tree. By the sound of the rustling leaves, she could tell they were dragging their feet. Emma assumed they weren't aware of her presence behind the tree. If they had been, they wouldn't have been wasting so much time. The willow was massive, so Emma's crouching body was covered, but her hope of escaping diminished when she noticed her pack lying in plain view.
"Hey, look," a man whispered. "Look over there."
"Whoa!" another exclaimed. "That could be somethin'!"
"Yeah!" a third man's voice unenthusiastically replied. "Maybe."
Oh great, she thought. More men. One of them sounded familiar, but Emma was aware that she couldn't trust anyone.
If she attempted to shoot them down from there, Emma knew they'd be on her within seconds of firing. But she had to make a move. If she wanted to escape, she would have to leave behind her possessions. For luck, Emma held on to her Aunt Mary's cross. Death if she stayed put. Not a great possibility of life, Emma believed, if she ran, but it was better than nothing.
Pounding her forehead with a fist, she thought, Stupid, stupid, stupid, when she realized she still wore Nell's mask. The attire she wore held no resemblance to a female's; she'd chosen it for this exact reason. Maybe they won't chase after me if they think I'm a man, a threat, she thought. Better leave the mask on.
Every second Emma wasted, they inched closer toward their prize. Tightening the strap of the crossbow around her chest, Emma prepared for her mad dash through the woods. Please Lord, she silently prayed, make me fast.
Emma brought the cross to her lips, and kissed it for good luck. As she let go, the cross seemed to fall in slow motion. When it collided with her chest, it felt like a ton of bricks.
In her mind, Emma heard her father's voice shout, Emma, move your ass! Then she was off.
One of the men commanded another to grab the pack and start chasing after "him." They had no way of deciphering whether she was female or not, so Emma assumed they must have been filling their stomachs with a different type of cuisine. One, Emma remembered, Reed strongly believed would send someone to the fiery depths of Hell.
With every stride, Emma's boots felt weighed down. The woods seemed to have grown thicker over night. Nature herself seemed to be against her escape. Roots had sprouted and stret
ched themselves beyond the trees they called home, but the inconvenience of their presence only coaxed Emma into running faster than she ever had before.
There were five of them, and they fired their weapons, shouting obscenities ranging from "Who is this fucking guy?!" to "We're going to get you!" to Emma's favorite: "No use in running, dumbass!"
Like hell there ain't, she thought, ignoring the stitch in her side.
As Emma pushed through the briar vines and low-hanging branches, she suffered a gash above her brow. The mask protecting her gender was now soaked with blood and beginning to tear. But it wasn't the mask that had her concerned. It was the log straight ahead. There was no way around it; it covered too much ground. Emma was going to have to jump.
Just as Emma began to hurtle herself across, her foot caught beneath a hidden root. What broke her fall was the broadside of her face smashing into the trunk. The pain was so severe, Emma felt as though her jaw was broken. Lightheaded and dizzy, she sat, defeated. Listening to their triumphant cheers of victory, she struggled to stand. Using the log as a crutch, she rolled herself over.
Resting the butt of the crossbow against her shoulder, she prayed, Please, God, give me strength to do what is necessary. Please, Lord, help me shoot straight.
"C'mon." She gurgled, spitting blood to the ground. "Shoot straight."
Adrenaline kicked in as Emma focused on the nearest stranger's checkered shirt. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, pulling the trigger. The bolt soared, piercing its prey. For a moment, her first victim gawked at the bolt protruding from his chest. As his body toppled over, his buddies seemed to have been rendered speechless.
Reloading, Emma prepared for the second shot.
"Dead," she whispered. "Four more."
She wasn't focusing on any of their faces. She didn't have the time. Currently, who they happened to be didn't matter. Her main focus was the lethal areas she knew would stop them from chasing after her.
They attempted to throw Emma off by taking refuge behind tree after tree, but she used their strategy to her advantage by distancing herself.