by Anna Carey
Page 34
“Get back here,” he growled.
My pulse throbbed in my fingers and my toes. I ran toward the light, my chest heaving now, my legs tiring. Keep going, I told myself. Just keep going.
Soon the trees ended and the land folded out before me, a thick expanse of wildflowers. The light was much farther off than I thought—a hundred yards away, set beneath the towering sand sculptures.
Fletcher’s boots hit rock as he stomped through the woods, his yells angrier than before. “You disgusting sow,” he called out. “You think you can fool me. ”
I looked around. The giant cliffs rose off to my left, their backs turned on me. A sand road snaked along to my right. More woods spilled out in front of me, but even a sprint could not close the gap before Fletcher reached me. I had no cover except the thick blanket of flowers, their delicate blooms no more than a few inches wide.
I fell to the ground. The blue and gold buds crushed beneath my fingers. I turned on my side, pulling the stalks closer to hide me. When I lifted my head only slightly, I caught a glimpse of Fletcher at the edge of the trees, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead.
He turned, spitting into the dirt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. ” He cocked his gun, raising the fine hairs on my arms.
As he made his way through the field, I sunk farther into the ground, wishing it would open up and swallow me whole. He moved slowly, the flowers parting at his knees, the mouth of the gun searching the length of the clearing. With each step his black boots crushed the blooms. When he was a couple yards away he squinted at me. He tilted his head to the side, as if he wasn’t sure if I was a shadow or not.
I froze, not daring to breathe. My fingers dug into the dirt, hard twigs and rocks scattering beneath me. Sweat beaded on my back. The air was trapped in my chest.
After careful consideration he turned and started away from me.
I closed my eyes, thankful he hadn’t seen me, thankful that at the very least Lark and Arden had gotten an extra minute to run away. I relaxed back into the flowers, my lungs releasing my breath, when a thin branch broke under me. Crack!
Fletcher spun around. “Hello, babydoll. ”
I was up before he could properly aim the gun. The first shot went past me and I ran, my heart banging in my rib cage. Wind rushed past my ears. Another shot went off, splintering a tree in the distance. I kept running and didn’t look back as the gun fired again. This time there was no shot, only the metallic click of the trigger. When I turned he was knocking the jammed gun on his hand.
I sprinted through the flowers, but he picked up his pace. His footsteps were faster than before, his body releasing short grunts of exertion.
“It’s over,” he said as he paused to fire.
I turned just in time to see him raise the gun, aiming it at my back. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that it would be quick, that my body wouldn’t buck the way the deer’s had, that I would leave this place without so much pain.
The shot sounded.
I felt my chest, waiting for the blood to gush from the wound, to feel the burning sensation of a bullet burrowing into my flesh. But there was nothing. No hole, no pain.
Nothing.
Behind me, Fletcher froze in place. He dropped his gun by his side. In the middle of his shirt a red stain slowly and determinedly spread outward, working its way to his sides and down his front. He made a gurgling sound and then fell—his mouth open—into the flowers.
I turned, my eyes resting on a figure across the field. An old woman came toward me. She looked nearly seventy, her ghostly white hair in a braid down her back. She petted the rifle in her hand like it was a dear pet.
“You all right?” she asked, studying my face. I kept my hand on my chest, steadied by my still-beating heart.
“Yes,” I managed. “I think so. ”
She grabbed Fletcher’s gun off the ground and emptied the ammunition into her hand. Then she kicked him, hard, in the side. He didn’t move. He was already dead.
“Thank you,” I whispered, not knowing if that was the right thing to say.
The old woman smiled, her face beautifully lined. “Marjorie Cross,” she said, holding out her wrinkled hand. “The pleasure is all mine. ”
Chapter Twenty-five
“HERE WE ARE,” MARJORIE SAID, PUSHING INTO THE house. “Go on now, settle yourselves down. ” She gestured to the living room, where a pink couch sat in front of the fire, yellowed lace covering each arm. A pot simmered in front of it, making the whole room smell of wild berries.
I waved Arden and Lark in behind me. “It’s all right,” I whispered, as Marjorie set the guns on the kitchen table. “We’re safe. ”
“Otis!” Marjorie called up a set of stairs. “Otis!” She held her throat as she yelled, each word strained. “Sorry,” she said, looking at us. “No place to buy hearing aids these days. You understand. ”
“Tell me why we’re in this crazy lady’s house?” Arden whispered as we sat down on the couch. She pressed at the side of her arm, where a scrape ran from her shoulder to her elbow, its pink insides dotted with ash.
“This crazy lady just saved my life. ” I’d called into the woods for twenty minutes before Arden and Lark finally showed themselves. They’d been afraid it was a trap, designed by Fletcher. Following Marjorie’s lead, we’d made our way to the shingled house nestled into the woods, with only a lantern glowing in the window. It was the same light I’d seen when I was running from Fletcher.
Marjorie banged through the kitchen, stacking plates in one hand.
“It’s pretty in here,” Lark said. Her face was still wet, her jumper spotted with patches of red mud. “I like it. ”
The couch looked comfortable and the dainty pillows didn’t smell of mildew, the way most post-plague cushions did. Delicate teacups—none of them chipped—and figurines of porcelain children locked together in a dance, or peering through the end of a telescope, filled a cabinet. The long wood dining table sat on the other side of the kitchen counter, decorated with a silver bowl of red, yellow, and green tomatoes.
I thought of the most coveted book in the library, about a little girl named Nancy, who had tutus and barrettes and all the other luxuries we didn’t have at School. When we were little, Pip, Ruby, and I used to curl up in bed together, reading about her family going to an ice cream shop, stopping on the part where she dresses her parents up, putting glasses on her father and a scarf on her mother. It was her house that I’d always loved, the giant sofa they collapsed into, the plants spotting the tables, the dresser that seemed always to be overflowing with clothes and toys. It was a real home, with painted walls and matching furniture. Like this.
The brick fireplace was studded with framed photos. A black-and-white portrait showed a baby girl in a checked pinafore. Another was of a boy in a white suit with a flower through the lapel. Then there was a photo of a young couple in high-waisted pants, their arms threaded through each other’s. The blond woman, just older than I was, held the man’s side, her hand over his heart.
I thought immediately of Caleb. He was out there somewhere, believing what he did. He was holding me in his memory, the way I shook his hand from my arm, my uncertainty when he’d asked me about Leif. He was out there without me.
“I see we have visitors. ” A silver-haired man climbed down the stairs, heaving one leg with great effort. He was even older than Marjorie, his flannel shirt tucked loosely into his pants, which were white at the knees, the tan fabric worn from overuse. Lark startled at the sight of him, and I realized that a few weeks ago, I would have done the same. After so much time with Caleb—riding behind him on his horse or walking beside him in the woods—I didn’t scare the way I once did.