Eve

by Anna Carey

Page 46

  “Pull over,” I said finally. “Do it quickly. ”

  The Jeep veered off to the side of the road, stopping at a cluster of buildings. A giant, arcing yellow M towered above us. I got out of the car and circled it, keeping the gun on the soldier as he fumbled with the red bag from the front console. He pulled out a needle and threaded it.

  There was purpose to his movements as he undid the tie around Caleb’s leg. His hands stopped shaking. He stuck a needle into the wound, injecting a clear fluid. Then he pulled a piece of gauze from the bag. I hadn’t seen anything so white since I left School. It was even brighter than the carefully laundered nightgowns we wore to bed.

  “It’s not as deep as I thought,” he said. He pressed the gauze to Caleb’s skin, blotting the wound, now oozing a deep burgundy. Then he cleaned the gash and stitched it shut with black thread, his eyes indifferent to the gore.

  By the time he was done, Caleb’s eyes were half open. “Thank you,” he said.

  The young man turned to me, his eyes searching mine. “Can I go now?” Tears threatened to run over his cheeks.

  Caleb shook his head again. “We need him to drive. ”

  “I promised,” I said slowly. I lowered the gun. Beyond us golden hills rolled on for miles.

  “We can’t,” Caleb said again.

  The soldier clasped his hands together, pleading. “I’m going to die out here anyway,” he said. “What do you want from me? I did what I said I was going to do. ” He looked so vulnerable, with a thin chest and legs that were all bone. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

  I nodded to the side of the Jeep, where the road gave way to sand and shrubs. “Go,” I said. “Now. ”

  Without looking back, he ran.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Caleb said. He studied the stitches in his leg. Then he adjusted himself, collapsing back into the comfort of the seat.

  “He was just a boy,” I said.

  “There are no boys in the King’s army. ” Caleb’s skin was red from the day’s sun. “Who’s going to drive now?”

  “I promised him,” I said again, so softly I doubted Caleb had heard.

  I climbed into the front seat, trying to remember how we had even gotten to this place. I turned the key the way I’d seen the soldier do. I held the wheel as Caleb had, all those miles over the desert. Then I moved the stick in the center, letting it lock on the D.

  I lowered my foot on the pedal and the Jeep lurched forward, picking up speed, moving faster and faster toward Califia.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  AFTER A FEW HOURS WE CROSSED AN ENORMOUS GRAY bridge and into the ruined city of San Francisco. Old, ornate houses rose around us, their colorful facades covered with ivy and moss. Cars stood abandoned in the middle of the road, forcing us onto the wide sidewalks, scattered bones crunching under the Jeep’s tires. Caleb held the map, directing me over the steep hills. He coached me through each turn, each acceleration, until the road rose up and there was only a stretch of blue beside us.

  “The ocean,” I said. I pulled over just to look.

  Below us the waves collided into one another, sloshing with white. The ocean was an expansive thing, a great reflection of the sky. Sea lions slept on a dock, their bodies slicked wet. A flock of birds circled above, greeting us with squeaky cries. You’re here, they called to us. You’ve made it.

  Caleb ran his hand over mine. His palm was still caked with dried blood. “I haven’t seen it since I was a kid. My parents took us here once and we rode a cable car. It was this giant wooden thing and I held onto the side of it . . . ” he trailed off.

  We sat there, hand in hand, scanning the horizon. “That’s it,” I said, pointing to the red bridge less than a mile in front of us, stretching over the vast expanse of blue. “The bridge to Califia. ”

  Caleb checked the map. “Yes, that’s it,” he said, but he didn’t smile. Instead a strange expression passed over his face. He seemed sad. “Whatever happens, Eve,” he said, squeezing my hand, “I just want you to—”

  “What do you mean?” I glanced down at the wound in his leg. “We’re here. It’s going to be okay now—we’re going to be okay. ” I leaned closer, trying to meet his gaze.

  When Caleb looked up, his eyes were wet. “Right, I know. ”

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said again, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, the back of his hand. “Don’t worry—we’re here. They’ll help you. ” He offered a weak smile, then let his body fall back into the seat.

  I pressed the pedal down, and we didn’t stop until the sidewalk ended, every inch of the pavement now covered with cars. Caleb lowered himself from the Jeep. The color had returned to his face, but his walk had transformed into a pained shuffle, his left leg hovering just above the ground.

  We started up the hill, past condemned houses and stores. Caleb’s steps were tentative. He put more and more of his weight on my shoulder. I shuddered as a dark thought consumed me: what if he wasn’t going to be fine? I pulled him closer to my side, as if my grasp could tether him to this earth, to me, forever.

  Finally we came to the place where the bridge dug into the cliff’s edge. A large park had grown over the entrance, grass and shrubs and trees spreading over the red metal opening. I pulled back a cluster of vines on the wall, exposing a plaque, greened by the years: GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE, 1937.

  We reached the bridge’s terrace and my heart beat faster. There was only a low guardrail between us and the three-hundred-foot drop. We maneuvered through old cars, stepping carefully onto the weeds and moss that covered the bridge.

  The charred vehicles still held skeletons strapped to the front seats. A truck sat on its side, spilling out the moldy remnants of someone’s apartment—broken frames, scattered books, a mattress. I kept moving, one foot in front of the other, listening to Caleb struggling for breaths.

  Just as exhaustion threatened to overcome us, I looked up. There, on the other side of the bridge, high above us on a ledge in the mountain, was a stone pillar with a lantern on top. The same signal I’d seen that night in the woods when I was running from Fletcher. I heard Marjorie’s voice: If the light is on, there’s room for you.

  It was the end of the Trail.

  “Just a little farther,” I promised, helping Caleb around a fallen motorcycle. “Don’t worry. ” I squeezed his side in an attempt to bring him back. “Just think about how we’ll be there soon. You’ll be able to lie down. There’ll be food. We’ll eat candied potatoes and rabbit meat and wild berries, and you’ll feel better after a night of rest. ”

  Caleb held his ripped T-shirt around him, steeling himself against the wind. He nodded, but his eyes still seemed sad. I wondered if his thoughts might have taken the same dismal turn mine had.

  The bridge spilled out into a thick forest. We climbed the beaten path carved out of the hill’s face to where the lantern glowed through the low trees. Before us was a short stone wall. As we neared, a figure stepped out, aiming a bow and arrow at our chests.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” a young woman called out. She was only a few years older than I was, her blond hair tied back. She wore a loose green dress, caked with dried mud, and tall black boots.